Legacy of Darkness
by Sinitar
Summary: Eragon is searching the Rock of Kuthian, Galbatorix wreaks havoc in Feinster and the Black Hand uses this opportunity to infiltrate among the Varden's ranks. FINISHED WORK!
1. The Shadowy Figure

**Hello readers. This is my second story for IC, and it will be slightly different compared to the usual book 4. Enjoy and be sure to review it so that I may discover my flaws, or take some opinions into consideration.**

"Ah, this cold autumn breeze freezes the marrow of my bones," one guard lamented as he brought his clumped hands closer to his mouth, breathing warm air on the rigid surface of the skin.

"Nasuada's orders, Belgor. You might dislike them, but the weather doesn't like you either," the other guard standing at the other side of the gate chuckled, making a taunting gesture with his gloves covered hands. Belgor threw him a piercing look of bitterness, but wasted no words to correct his companion's silly display. After all, it was his fault for not bringing his pair of gloves because of his faulty weather prediction.

"Want me to call Shadeslayer's dragon to warm you up? I heard she wouldn't mind doing it, "the guard said jokingly, smiling with satisfaction at Belgor's wry expression.

"Your attempt to cheer someone up is as cold and devoid of inner warmth as this freezing morning, Vadovar," he sighed while embracing his torso with his arms for extra warmth as another breeze whipped the two guards. Belgor's persistence on closing any chance of dialogue between the two was finally rewarded when Vadovar shifted in his chain mail and resumed his usual lookout for strangers that might appear out of nowhere.

After rebuilding the strong, almost impenetrable gate of Feinster with the help from the elven spellcasters, Nasuada has assigned him and Vadovar with the most important mission of guarding this gate and report any shadowy figure that would try to infiltrate within the walls of the city. Such precaution was needed, for the Varden threat grew and its cunning enemies would use every trick to break the fragile balance that held the free races together.

Fortunately, the enemy had not shown any sings of a possible attempt to recapture Feinster during the three days since the citadel was captured with the aid of the two Shadeslayers, who skillfully defeated the Shade Varaug. But even if the soldier's morale was supposed to held high, the cold autumn weather has been against them this whole time. The few houses that escaped the tremendous damage could only shelter few of the soldiers, while most of the Varden lay in their tents, awaiting for the most expected order that would take them away from the city with close proximity to the sea.

Most of the food supplies were reaching an empty bottom, and rumor said that Saphira was asked to hunt deer to feed the people by Nasuada herself. Belgor smiled to himself when this rumor returned to his mind as he pictured a desperate leader talking to the huge impassive dragon.

"Why are you smiling?" Vadovar cut in, erasing Belgor's mirth in an instant. By studying his contorted black mustache, the green lucid eyes that blinked rapidly due to the irritating wind and the thick brows closing into a frown, Belgor replied nonchalantly, " I don't have to tell you, mate. Maybe this friendly wind will whisper into your ear.

Vadovar clenched his teeth and retorted, " Suit yourself, baldie. Cold is clearly making its way to your brain; no wonder why you are so bitter." Of all the insults his guard mate could have picked, this single one was enough to enrage Belgor, who unsheathed his sword without hesitation.

"Maybe a spar would warm us up?" he taunted, waiting for Vadovar to do the same. Alas, his expectations were short lived. By assuming the stance specific to each guard, Vadovar sighed and twisted his neck to the left. Such ignorance was the least Belgor wanted, and he quickly tried to make amends for his rash behavior.

"Have you heard the rumor about the blue dragon Saphira and the food supply?" he said faintly, almost tauntingly, to summon Vadovar's attention. His plan worked, and his frigid companion joined in immediately, "That's something conjured by a silly mind similar to yours. The rumors I have access to are the real ones." With his interested roused, Belgor approached Vadovar, his heavy boots clanging on the tough soil. When he was near the middle of the gate, Vadovar signaled him to stop and said, " You don't want to abandon your post, I presume." By moving a hand to his face, he scratched his short black beard and continued, "Ever since the end of the battle, Eragon Shadeslayer has retreated to the woods to mourn. For whom, I don't know, but princess Arya has not been feeling well either."

Belgor was surprised by the peculiar rumor at first, but the reply that had yet to arrive brought him an awkward look from his companion. Without mangling his already tired mind with further theories, he asked, "What does this have to do with us?"

Unable to express his disappointment in a more vocal manner, Vadovar covered his face with his palm. "Nothing, except for the possibility of a surprise attack from that betrayer Murtagh and his ruby dragon and an incapable Rider ready to defend us, " he replied sarcastically on a very annoying tone.

"Calm down mate, it was just a simple question," Belgor tried to mend the hot temper of the angry guard, with little chance of success. He shook his head in dismay at Vadovar and looked towards the main road. In the distance, he could see a figure that resembled a man approaching, but his numb mind could just play tricks on him.

"Vadovar, what's that, in the distance?" he alerted his companion, who shuddered violently before he confirmed what Belgor was seeing.

"It's just a lost traveler. A soldier of Galbatorix wouldn't dare attacking the city alone." Vadovar's words calmed Belgor a little, who felt nervous for some reason. No travelers would usually move straight towards a city in ruin, and even less were the ones who would travel alone. As the man closed in, Belgor could make out his simple outfit. He wore a black robe weaved with golden thread that rippled in a beautiful yet strange pattern and his face was covered by a hood belonging to the same robe. His ominous look urged Belgor to reach towards his sword, but Vadovar signaled him to refrain from doing so and stepped forward to meet the hooded man.

"Where are you heading?" His voice was firm and his stoic position made his appearance slightly intimidating, yet the traveler was not put down by the guard's posture and replied calmly in a deep voice, "I have a warning for your leader."

"Is that so? Where are you coming from?" Vadovar asked.

"You should not ask pointless questions, guard. Allow me in, for I bear a message of utmost importance." Belgor was put aback by this man's confidence. He stood in front of a guard, unarmed, and almost mocked him with his daring request. Vadovar's irritation also grew and quickly summoned him to his side with a flick of his left hand.

"I am a trained guard of the Varden, and you will show me some respect," Vadovar said critically. Belgor couldn't see his face because of the hood, but the smile; the wicked, defying smile this man displayed sent chills down his spine. He was no ordinary man, and Belgor knew it. But before he could do anything, Vadovar unsheathed his sword, pointing the shining metal blade at the hooded man.

"What are you going to do with that, guard? End me?" He asked with the same calm voice, as if he wasn't in any immediate threat. A strange glimmer summoned Belgor's attention, who switched his gaze towards the man's hip. An emerald on the pommel of what seemed to be a sword shone for a second, only to be covered by the dark robe a moment after. Feeling that something is not right, Belgor drew out his sword and assumed a battle stance. The hooded man probably realized that a secret of his had been discovered, and took a few steps back with the two guards warily shuffling towards him, holding their swords steadily.

"Show me your weapon, stranger, or I strike you down where you stand!" Vadovar demanded threateningly. The hooded man did nothing, and continued to withdraw slowly and steadily. For him, this seemed to be a game, where they were just some people with two swords and no importance. The impassive attitude of the stranger infuriated Belgor, who joined Vadovar with a loud shout.

"Show yourself! What is your name?" When the words left his mouth, the stranger suddenly stopped dead in his tracks. The two guards looked at each questioningly and charged at the same time, swinging in unison.

The hooded man dodged Belgor's blow easily and ducked under Vadovar's hit with great speed. Belgor was frozen the moment when the stranger unsheathed a green colored sword that resembled Eragon's weapon. With it, he parried Vadovar's attack and then sliced upwards, cutting off his companion's arm who wailed in pain for a second before the emerald sword silenced him. The sword dropped on the floor with a clang when Belgor saw his end in the form of this stranger. It was no mere human, that was certain. But before the decisive strike came, the man removed his hood and said coldly, "You wanted to know who I am? Your rightful king."


	2. Against the King

"… and that is why we need to hasten our pace and strike while our opponent is weakened," said Nasuada with conviction as she quickly rose from her seat. "If we do not take advantage of this opportunity, our forces will be pressed even harder by Galbatorix's spell casters and his pet Rider," she continued, increasing the tone of her voice as she tried to cover the different mumblings added more to the tense atmosphere inside the commanding chamber.

After a few tense moments, in which Nasuada's inquisitive stare checked on every person present at the meeting, a strong middle aged man rose up from his seat, banging his fist into the wooden table.

"That is preposterous! Do you care so little about the Varden as to push everyone capable of fighting to the limit? With our limited rations and the warriors that were injured during the siege we would not be able to cover even half the distance!" he shouted, his eyebrows locked in a deep, menacing frown directed at his superior.

Despite the challenging stance of the angry commander, Nasuada maintained her composure as she put both of her arms on the wooden table casually.

"Your hot temper and accusations will do little to help the Varden, Thorad. If you have something important to say, keep your patience and emotions within the limit of a civilized person," she concluded.

There were different reactions in the small yet cozy room after the dark skinned woman finished what she had to say. Some of the members were looking at her with surprise, while others scowled at the vanity she displayed. The room was completely silent, without even the slightest whisper being heard as no one opened his mouth to speak.

The exception was only a slight creak made by the wood, which protested at the large bulk of the chubby man that dropped comfortably into his chair.

The pressing atmosphere mixed with boiling tempers, sweat and different tactics, each with its own potential, felt like a blanket of iron that covered the whole room. Of all the undamaged residences, Nasuada selected this one because of its proximity to the central square and its sturdy walls. A house that used to accommodate the nobles was turned into the Varden's meeting place by filling the living room with tables and seats. Plenty of light entered through the crystalline windows and landed on the map covered tables, but few were the ones who actually cared about it.

At the opposite end of the table stood Thorad, who was thoughtfully scratching his beard after the recent defeat. Next to him there was one of Orik's general who replaced him. His bulky appearance made him look intimidating, but the kindness he displayed was greatly appreciated by everyone. Arya impassively stared at Nasuada from the other side of the square table, her back straightened against the chair. Such lack of attention would have usually enraged a commander, yet Nasuada was too tired and too absorbed in her vengeful replies to actually care about her.

After she glanced one more time at every person in the room, Nasuada placed one hand on the map and dragged it to a place where the landmarks would be visible to everyone.

"I am aware of the status of our troops, and I know that it would be hard to march again right after a costly victory such as this one, but if we are fast enough, we can capture Belatona before Murtagh and the king's men would have time to fully recover. Such achievement would not only lower the casualties on our side, but it would also lift the morale of our troops and discourage the enemy. A swift, decisive victory; that's all I wish for."

After she finished, Nasuada removed her finger from where the city of Belatona was positioned and sit back in her chair with her arms crossed.

The next reply took her by surprise when a distinctive elf locked her emerald eyes on her,

"We should not let appearances deceive us. We cannot afford to do another mistake. Not after what happened…" Her eyes drifted elsewhere as she fell into the same impassiveness she displayed seconds ago.

Confused and slightly enraged by the ones siding with Thorad and his delays, Nasuada threw her a look of uncertainty, "And what is it you want to say, Arya? Are you perhaps gifted to see into the future, or do you simply suggest that we should wait more time until Eragon could get over the recent events? It has been three days, and we all suffered losses, but this is the reality! We are at war, and these kind of sentimentalisms are what is dragging us down so much!" Nasuada said, increasing the volume of her voice without even noticing it as she expressed her innermost frustrations.

"Speak not of what you do not understand! How dare you mock the ones who have perished to uphold your ideals? How dare treat them so?" Arya retorted before she stormed out of the tent.

Everyone in the room was silent, but words were not needed to express what their angry glares indirectly said as all the eyes were turned to Nasuada. The cold realization of her misguided thoughts reached up with her as an unnatural feeling of apprehension seeped in into her being. Nasuada cast her gaze down; unable to resist the torment of matching the stare of anyone that was present at the meeting. Her heart began to beat frantically and her face and hands became sweaty, knowing about the repercussions her words might have upon her status as a leader. This short, tense moment made her tired mind swarm with the thoughts about what everyone thought about her right now, and doubts soon began prodding at her conscience. Has the war had such a big impact on her that made her ignorant to the people's physical and emotional needs? Was she finally breaking up under the stress her position exerted?

After a few minutes that stretched themselves like they were hours, the tension has reached its breaking point. With a quick move of her hand, Nasuada grabbed the map, almost tearing it up in the process. Her eyes looked frantically over it in trying to come up with something, but it was not to be.

A powerful explosion shook the walls of the small place where the meeting was taking place, the vibrations taking the dust off the ground. Nasuada bolted up on her legs, same as the others which were present in the room. A moment after, the door was blasted open, revealing an armored nighthawk.

"Lady Nasuada, there was a huge force that destroyed the main gate. We could see the splinters flying in the air from here!" said the guard on an alarmed voice.

Nasuada awaited a bit before answering," I will…" she suddenly stopped, but resumed immediately, "just go and check what was it, then give me a proper description of what was the cause of that explosion," she said on a frail, lifeless tone as she sat back in her chair, cupping her head in her hands.

...

Arya felt the frail structure that held her being together crumble under the pillars of uncertainty. Everyone who ever cared for her was gone, taken away by this war. She just stood on the paved road motionless, staring blankly at the damaged city that was undergoing through a change. Was this the answer to her desperation? Was it wrong to mourn the dead, while the war needed support from everyone? But most important, was Nasuada right, and it was she who needed to change?

The pain, the suffering she has experienced since the death of Oromis and his dragon seemed to be a painful reminisce of Faolin's fate. Both of them aided her during times of incertitude, yet there was no one here for her, in this moment. She was alone, lost in a mass of humans who could never hope to understand her. Why would they, when not even her kind searched to soothe her tumultuous feelings?

She took a few unsure steps, allowing her legs to carry her wherever they wanted. But even if she deluded herself with false reassurance that pain would meet an end, it was all in vain. How could one fight a war, when there was nothing to fight for? Even if the Varden would win, a victory would still not bring them back.

After taking a few turns through the crowded city, she reached the central part of the city that was occupied by a mass of tents. Without enough buildings to shelter the Varden, the people have settled their tents wherever they could. Even if Nasuada offered her the possibility to sleep in a more comfortable bed situated in a warm chamber, Arya declined and allowed the servants to install her tent in the middle of the city. It was the only place where she felt secluded from the outside rumble as its green, pleasant color reminded her of the lush forests of Du Weldenvarden.

She slowly pushed away the flap of the tent and crawled inside, where she immediately fell onto her cot like a lifeless boulder. Changing her green leather tunic and dirty dark leather leggings was a nuisance she couldn't possibly bother with. While lying inside the confines of her tent, Arya mind was preoccupied with only one thing: Nasuada's words. As harsh, brutal and unforgiving as she was, her words expressed something that puzzled Arya greatly.

Before she could dwell on her thoughts any longer, the sound of what seemed to be an explosion jolted her from her comfortable position. As strange and unexpected the booming sound was, she didn't feel over inquisitive about it. Her troubled mind could only focus on her problems, ignoring everyone in the process. But even if the much sought peace was the only thing she wanted, Erian, one of Eragon's spell casters, contacted her. " Arya, Nasuada urgently needs your help. It is a matter of great importance," he said hurriedly.

Why would Nasuada dare request her help, when she just insulted the two elves that she treasured the most? Had her cruelty no limits? Her emotional side urged her to ignore the request, like she ignored Oromis in return, but cold logic prevailed in the end. Logic, and… out of a sudden, she could feel the presence of a very powerful spell caster. It was as if this entity appeared out of nowhere, just moments after the explosion.

Without further hesitation, she picked up her blade that rested against her cot and attached it to her hip and stormed out of her tent. "Erian, gather the others and accompany me. This enemy is not an ordinary one," she said briefly before zigzagging through the houses. As she got closer to the gate of Feinster, the wails of pain and terror filled her ears.[i] _No matter what minion Galbatorix sent, I will end it as he ended Oromis_,[/i] she thought vengefully before she took a sharp turn behind a house and reached on the road leading to the gate.

Arya frowned slightly when the source of all this commotion displayed before her eyes. In the distance, a solid group of Varden soldiers surrounded a single man. From where she stopped, she couldn't quite make out his features, but the bodies of a few soldiers hinted her that this agent of the Empire was a skilled one. Why the battle stopped, she had no idea, but it seemed strange to her that the soldiers were not even flinching. A rustle coming from behind put her on guard, her hand grabbing the pommel of her sword. Her grip lessened when she realized that reinforcements have arrived.

"We gathered as fast as we could," Blodhgarm said as he emerged from a backside alley with the thirteen spell casters assembled. Pleased with their speed, Arya signaled them to move forward, in unison. "We will use the spirit wolf tactic, Blodhgarm. This battle will be over before it even starts," Arya concluded coldly and unsheathed her glimmering blade. The elves stopped dead in their tracks when the soldiers that surrounded the attacker fell to the ground like hay puppets after the unknown enemy performed a swift and deadly whirlwind. For the first time since she was young, Arya felt the blood chilling in her veins. Not because of the power of this enemy, but because all of the soldiers died in complete silence, no scream announcing their demise except for the metal that pierced through their armor.

She could now see who their opponent was: A man dressed in a dark robe seemed to repulse the light around him. A hood concealed his face, but his very presence was enough to instill fear into any experienced soldier. His sinister powers were also unknown to Arya, a great disadvantage on the battlefield. "Let's not leave our guest waiting," she reassured her companions before she charged towards the hooded man with great speed. Her grace and finesse was rivaled by very few people, and because of that, Arya was almost certain that the spirit wolf tactic, a strategy invented by Blodhgarm during trainings, would overwhelm the enemy before he even gets to retaliate. "Stand ready," she instructed the elves before she swung at the defenseless enemy. Her light but almost indestructible sword whooshed through the air at a speed very few could avoid, and for a moment, she thought that this enemy was just a spell caster with no knowledge in sword fight.

With just a flick of his wrist, the stranger unsheathed a green sword and parried her blow, laughing mockingly. For the tactic to work, Arya had to understand his attack patterns, but this man had none. A tingling sensation of fear made itself noticed after she swung at his head and then ducked for a low blow combined with a spinning strike. All of her hits were blocked with a speed she could barely believe; it was the speed of a Dragon Rider of Old. There was only one man who could withstand her attacks… She immediately withdrew from the battle( surprisingly, the enemy allowed her to do it) and contacted Erian through a pant, "Call for Eragon. This is no mere enemy. This is…" fear combined with hatred laced her next word, "Galbatorix." Despite the shocking revelation, all of the elves held their composure. As if by an uncommon accord, the hooded man spoke on a deep voice that emanated power, "Very perceptive of you, Arya. But I am afraid your skills are a little rusty."

In front of her stood the one responsible for the death of Faolin, Oromis, Glaedr and countless others. The tyrant that has ended the prosperous reign of the Dragon Riders and brought terror and despair into Alagaesia was no more than several meters in front of her, ready to bring a new age of strife for the free races. By channeling her fear into hatred for the one that killed everyone who she held dear, Arya smirked, "So, you have finally abandoned your great city so you can meet your end by my blade. When opportunity presents itself, it's only natural that I should take advantage of it."

"You overestimate your power, elf. Instead of shedding more blood upon the grounds of my city, I advise you to bring Nasuada," he said coldly, almost defiantly. Arya tightened the grip on her sword and glanced at the elven spellcasters who nodded back at her. Confident in her combat prowess, she readied her sword, "The only thing I will bring about is your demise, traitor!"

Arya and two elves rushed to meet Galbatorix with steel while the others chanted the necessary spells in the ancient language. The air surrounding the king froze and picked up in speed, creating a circular blizzard that obscured anyone's vision, save for those who were aware of this strategy. "Root him in place," Arya shouted before she ventured into the ice storm with the two elves, ready to meet the confused enemy. From the tough earth below, strong vines protruded and entangled Galbatorix in place, rendering him unable to move. Even if the wards against cold protected her party, Arya still couldn't land a clean blow due to the speed of her enemy. His cunningness with the blade was impressive, but that's exactly what she was awaiting for: distraction. _You will not be able to dodge this one_ thought Arya as she made a quick strike with her sword before leaning her body to the side. The timing was perfect, for in the next moment a blazing fireball passed by her shoulder, splashing itself in a blinding multitude of sparks as it dissipated into the king's wards. The effect made Arya's eyes slit due to the powerful light, but it was much worse for Galbatorix, who was the main target of the attack. Realizing that she could end it all right now, Arya quickly stroke with her sword at the king's legs, then whirled her body around with incredible alacrity. It all seemed a blur through the eye of a common human, and one could say that there is impossible to evade a blow this fast.

CLANG! Arya's blade did not meet the soft flesh, but the king's sword as Galbatorix parried the blow which was supposed to cut him in half. He did it by bending his body skillfully while placing his sword next to his chest.

_[i]__Curse you, traitor! What would it take to drive you back?[/i]_ thought Arya as she resumed the flurry of her attacks. Still, all was not lost, for the king needed full focus in order to counter such blow. "Blodhgarm, your turn," she said while swinging at Galbatorix's torso, meeting his green brightsteel sword with her own.

With enough energy provided by the other spell casters, Blodhgarm took the shape of a large wolf capable of moving faster than any elf. His task was to sneak behind the enemy and incapacitate him in order to ensure the success of the others. His attention drawn by Arya and the two elves, Galbatorix failed to notice the wolf that sneaked behind him, ready to sink his teeth into everything he could grab on. "Pathetic, but you had your chance," he said briefly before releasing himself from the gripping roots and planted his sword through the chest of one of the elves fighting alongside Arya. At the same time, he sliced upwards to imbalance the other elf and then stabbed him through the neck, obtaining a faint choke that was lost in whistling wind.

"Thrysta vindr, "the king shouted. All it took were two simple words and Arya felt a huge force collide with her body as she was sent flying through the air, just like Blodhgarm. She released a cough of pain the moment she hit the ground, feeling the air being drawn from her. It was no doubt that Galbatorix was just toying with her, as the power of the spell was pathetic compared to how he froze the eight guards in place at the same time. Still, her wounds were great, and her head was throbbing in pain.

_[i]__You are skilled in the arts of magic, elves. Perhaps I should play along[/i],_ the king said in Arya's mind. Even if she was still dizzy and sore from the recent fall, Arya tried to get up, but her legs refused to obey.

"You monster!" she shouted in revulsion at his cruel doings, but Galbatorix did not even turn his head around. He had more important business to attend to. From her position, all she could see was an ice storm enveloping the remaining spell casters. It was bigger, stronger, and in the heart of the vortex, she could notice small icicles. Her heart filled with terror at the horrifying sight, and she could do little to help her fellow companions. After seconds of inner agony, loud screams of pain chilled her being, and then it was silence. After the spell ended, Arya gasped in horror at the sight in front of her: Everyone was pierced with icicles, and thick roots that climbed up to their torso crumbled their limbs and ribs.

Arya's vision flickered as she rolled on her back, watching at the clear blue sky through her half opened eyes. The only thing she wanted was to become oblivious to this pain, to forget what just happened. Would her torment never end? Before darkness engulfed her senses, her lips whispered a single word, "Eragon…"


	3. The End of Tears

**2 reviews! Nice! You will have to wait and see how the Galby fight turns out to be, I'm not spoiling anything. Keep reading and be sure to leave a review. They make me very happy.**

A cold gust of wind blew through the forest, ruffling the orange leaves rustled as they were pushed by the unstoppable force. The now frail leaves that hanged on the boughs of the once verdant trees were now at the mercy of the wind that carried them on its whistling wings until they would settle on the ground and decay, transforming into nutrients for the sprouting flowers.

However, something interfered in the natural order imposed by the nature as a few stray leaves brushed against an unmovable blue obstacle which stood defiantly in the path of the chilling gale.

Eragon shifted his stiff body uncomfortably, bringing his knees closer to his chest after a frosty breeze sneaked under the protective wing of his partner-of-mind-and-soul, gradually draining the pleasant warmth that contrasted with the temperature outside.

The young Rider lay limp, oblivious to the irritating sensation that bit at his back. His mind barely had enough time to process what happened in the last few days of his troubled life. Everything had happened so fast and sudden, like a powerful storm that would grind a city that lasted for entire generations to dust.

Oromis, one of the last free Riders of the old order perished at the hands of the evil king, who used the blade of Murtagh to uphold the vengeance he had sworn on the Riders ages ago. His mentor's death was the last piece needed to complete this chain of misery that was forced upon the people of Alagaësia the moment Galbatorix seized the throne. Eragon tightened his fists at remembering the deep, powerful voice of the king before he decided to take the life of someone that was close to him. He did it without any trace of remorse, like Oromis was a simple threat that needed to be erased.

_We will soon meet, usurper, and I swear upon the blood of my father, my mentors and all the ones you mercilessly slain that I will strike you down without the slightest hesitation,_ he thought, imagining a dark figure sitting upon a large throne, smiling defiantly each time his servants took the life of anyone who would dare opposing him.

The sinister embodiment of the dark king shimmered out of existence as Eragon snapped his eyes open, a small tear slithering down his cheek until it was consumed by the heat radiating from his face. The Rider rolled dexterously on the squashy soil so he could face the blue membrane of Saphira's wing. He gently placed his hand on the warm, velvety membrane and lifted it slowly, careful not to awake the sleeping dragon.

A shiver stiffened him as a cold rush of air drained the heat from his exposed torso the moment he crawled out from under the warm shelter he rested a moment ago. Ignoring his protesting body, he quickly raised up to his feet, his brown eyes fixed upon the form of the blue dragon whose large nostrils flared in rhythm with her breathing.

Eragon couldn't help but sketch a smile when seeing the peacefulness and lack of concern Saphira displayed while sleeping. It was almost hard to believe that the dragon in front of him would not hesitate to tear to shreds anything that would pose a threat to her or her Rider.  
A small flick of her tail tip made Eragon snap out of his reverie and knowing what this sleeping cuteness would do to him should she find out what he is up to, the Rider quickly turned his head away and started to run wherever his legs would take him.

After distancing himself well enough from Saphira, Eragon's speed increased drastically as he broke into a swift run. It took only a few moments for him to reach a small, flat area that was perfect for a morning exercise. The aching muscles, the sweat that rolled down his brow after an intense exercise, it all helped him focus on a single objective: improvement. By keeping himself preoccupied, he wouldn't have to suffer and eventually wither in dark memories like leaves in winter. With a resolute sparkle in his eyes, he took a deep breath and shuffled forward, where he suddenly stopped.

Without hesitation, Eragon unbuckled the sword which rested at his hip and moved away a short distance so he could perform the Rimgar, an exercise that was excellent to remove his stiffness.

Although he had done this several times, Eragon couldn't help but groan under the strain his muscles were put every time he bended his body and stretched his limbs as much as his muscles would allow. It was anything but pleasant, even painful, yet Eragon did not even hesitate for a second before doing the more complicated maneuvers of the Rimgar.

Only a few minutes passed since he started the morning warm-up and his body was drenched in sweat due to the intense effort he underwent. Panting heavily, Eragon limped towards his sword and collapsed on the ground, his muscles too sore to support his whole weight.

_Pain; it never seems to leave me,_ he thought with bitterness, scolding himself for yet another mistake he committed due to his quick judgment. Without being able to do anything in his current lethargic state, Eragon rolled onto his back, staring blankly at the cloudless sky. The darkness of the night still held strong as the sun barely crept on the horizon, painting the sky in nuances purple and hues of dark blue.

Except for the tireless crickets and the occasional rustle of leaves, there was a complete silence; such stillness instilled a feeling of peacefulness, along with the mysterious veil of the night. Peace…how Eragon wished that every day would be like this. He would awaken and spend all the day in the middle of nature, with no concerns of the raging war nor the fear of losing his loved ones.

_And it will be like this, but only when the black heart of Galbatorix stops beating!_ Thought Eragon with a strong resolve as he jumped on his legs, unsheathing the glittering blue blade created by his own hands. The Rider ran a hand across the smooth blade, stopping as he reached the rune that meant "fire" in the common language. Then, with incredibly alacrity, he brought the sword to the level of his head, parrying an invisible blow which was followed by a flurry of quick slashes.

"Not quick enough!" he screamed as he ducked and rolled to the side, followed by a quick thrust combined with a backhand slam. After a series of wild swings, Eragon realized that it was not strength or skill, but grace that lacked from his fighting style. By trying to include more mobility into his sword moves, he attained certain uniqueness that he previously lacked, but the ferocity of his attacks diminished. Mobility claimed strength, which was needed to imbalance an opponent and seize the opportunity.

Eragon continued parrying, dodging and evading blows while retaliating with impressive slashes of his hand and a half sword. After a particular combination of strength and finesse, in which he did a whirling spin, an upside down slash swung lowly while ducked, Eragon lowered his sword and jumped back. His breathing became slightly accelerated and his blank stare made it impossible for anyone to determine what was going on in his mind.

After a short while of recovering, Eragon groaned like a ferocious warrior and jumped upwards, bringing his sword down in a mighty slash that would end any one unfortunate enough. Without wasting a moment, he rolled on the ground, slashing at the enemy's feet before he brought his sword in a powerful side slash.

The Shadeslayer combined unrelenting blows with implacable defenses, and while his battle frenzy possessed him, the ferocity of his strikes increased. His Elven speed allowed him to do moves no other Human could, yet his proficiency with the sword lacked the determination, the grace and the finesse the Elves innately had.

Fatigue quickly started to take its toll on Eragon's body as his sweat covered brow acquired a more pronounced reddish tint. Still, he did not falter under the strain imposed by his weakened body as he quickly grabbed his sword with the other hand, bringing down the blade in a diagonal slash.

In an instant, the image of Oromis's flesh being torn apart by the red, bloodied blade flashed before his eyes, its vivid quality resembling the moment when the tragedy happened.

Enraged and scared, Eragon slashed the air in front of him with wrath and hatred.  
"Brisingr!" he cried out. The blade suddenly burst into dazzling blue flames and swished through the air before Eragon redirected it into a furious blow that slashed the ground before his feet open. The dried leaves caught flame as the soft soil was split like a fruit by the sharp burning sword.

In the following second, Eragon collapsed on the ground, stroke with grief and exhaustion after his recent outburst. No matter how hard he tried to get over the tragic moment, the death of his masters was fused within his mind, threatening to never let him have the well sought peace.

Taking a deep breath, Eragon extended his right palm as his eyes looked down at the Gedwëy Ignasia, the mark of the Riders. _Brom sacrificed his life to save me, and Oromis rode out into the heart of the battle to meet an enemy I was supposed to defeat. Both of them passed their knowledge onto me, having faith that I will be the one to slay the dark king and bring peace to Alagaësia. I must not fail them!_ The Rider thought to himself reassuringly, his eyes drifting towards a fallen branch in front of him.  
_  
__Mourning them will not make me stronger,_ Eragon thought as he silently chanted a few words in the ancient language, releasing the branch from its inert state as it suddenly sprang upwards.

Eragon bolted to his feet and darted towards the branch. He skillfully brought his blade upwards in a quick slash and then twisted around, doing a circular motion with the blade. Multiple fragments of wood detached themselves from the main branch as it was cut long before it had the change to drop safely on the ground below.

The Rider looked briefly at a fragment of wood he snatched from the falling pieces, his face expressionless before he just disposed of it. Lifting his head, he took a brief look at the sky, which acquired a much lighter color since the last time he looked at it. Exhaling loudly, Eragon sheathed his sword and started to run, his body slowly disappearing into the dense forest.

He only needed to stop once to catch his breath due to the intense training session, but except that short break he made no further stops until he reached a small area surrounded by large trees. This was where he and Saphira had rested and by the looks of it, nothing much had happened as the blue dragon lay in the same place, oblivious to what was happening outside the realm of dreams.

Eragon moved towards her with slow steps to avoid further problems, should he ruin whatever dreams she was experiencing. Her breathing became louder with each step that brought him closer to her large, horned head. Then, when he was close enough, Eragon ran his hand across her snout with a slow, gentle move before settling down with his back against her front leg. From that position he could easily pat the smooth scales that covered her neck, which he eventually did, even if there was a small risk of waking her up.

Fortunately for him, that was not the case and the Rider slowly retracted his hand and placed it on his leg while he let his mind wonder aimlessly through the vast chain of events that occurred since Saphira hatched for him. Eragon pondered about this until he turned his head to his right. There, near the blue dragon's large wing, was a small bloated pouch that could contain a multitude of things.

Extending his hand, Eragon grabbed the small bag and stuck his hand in it, pulling out a few scrolls. A closer inspection revealed that the scroll contained different information about spells and their effects, something which Eragon had requested the day before from one of the Elven spell casters.

H_mpf, it seems the one who delivered these did not wake Saphira,_ he thought, picturing an angry Saphira staring down at a scared elf.  
These better be important, he said to himself as he carefully rolled open one such scroll.

_Do not bother checking those rolled-to-be-small papers_, little one, came the voice of Saphira as she slowly opened one large sapphire eye.

_Why not, Saphira? The knowledge written here could offer me the upper hand in this war. Besides, I have nothing better to do, _said the Rider as he extended the parchment so he would have a clear view at what was written on it.

Eragon barely had time to decipher the first words as the scroll slipped from his hands under the force of an unnatural rush of air. Raising an eyebrow, he looked towards Saphira, who turned her head in the opposite direction, like nothing happened.

_We could always fly together in the sky,unrestrained by any bonds. It is a much better choice than read a few meaningless words._

Eragon frowned slightly, _How can you know that? There is a reason why I asked one of the elves to deliver me these scrolls, and I do not intend to put them aside without even looking at what's inside!_

Saphira seemed unimpressed by Eragon's plea as she yawned widely, completely detached from what her Rider tried so much to obtain, _You are making such a big fuss about it. I have already read them and I tell you there's nothing of importance. Now, let us fly before I decide against and go hunting.__  
_  
_You… have read them? Then tell me, wise one, what does this particular rune means?_ Asked Eragon as he quickly grabbed another scroll, unfolding it with great haste while a victorious smile stretched across his face.

Saphira brought her large snout closer to the scroll, but the piece of paper quickly bended as she exhaled the air from her nostrils.  
Eragon couldn't help but release a loud chuckle at Saphira's attempt to read a scroll which clearly defied her, _I guess the dislike is mutual._


	4. The Varden's Last Hope

Saphira didn't take the joke well, for in the next moment Eragon found himself embracing the dirt, testing its consistence with his face. A few leaves and all kind of particles that were mixed with the dirt made Eragon's face contort in disgust as they sneaked onto his open mouth. Groaning slightly, he pushed himself off the ground, only to be pressed down yet again by a massive force that made his back bones pop faintly.

_You don't seem to get along with the ground either, little one, _said Saphira as she released a rumbling laughter.

_That is very observant of you, Saphira, but could you please get your massive paw off me? I promise I won't bring a__ny scroll near you for as long as I live_, bargained Eragon, hoping to put an end to what was supposed to be a fun moment which took a very different turn.

Fortunately for him, Saphira was not in a bad disposition as the weight that pressed him down lifted, allowing him to quickly get up on his knees. A few coughs and spits quickly followed before Saphira brought in her large snout and nuzzled her Rider.

_That wouldn't do it, not if you want to keep those precious scrolls of yours from becoming one with the earth. Am I not more important than those useless scraps of paper?_ Saphira teased with vanity, staring intently at her Rider with a large, glimmering sapphire eye.

Eragon flinched under her gaze, his mind blank to what he supposed to say in order to prevent another embarrassing situation for him. It was always hard to decipher Saphira's intentions, even if the two of them were bonded like vines upon walls.

Of course you are, oh beautiful queen of the skies. I couldn't fathom any reason why should I ignore the attention you show me, answered the Rider dryly and sarcastically. He could barely restrain his irritation at Saphira's erratic behavior, but that was one of the reasons he liked her so much.

Saphira snorted, unfurling her large wings. _Then I suppose you wouldn't mind a little flying session, _she said as she quickly grabbed Eragon in one of her forelegs, then jumped into the air, flapping her massive wings.

Eragon barely had time to react before he felt something big grabbing him by his torso while his feet left the ground. He tried to scream, but only an unrecognizable screech escaped his throat as the gravity worked against him.

_I thought you wanted to fly, not to drag me with in your claws like I'm some kind of animal you just hunted!_ Eragon screamed in her mind while he kicked his arms and legs, trying to break free from the uncomfortable grip.

_Just relax and enjoy the winds of freedom, Eragon. You will feel much better when you will stop trashing like that,_ Saphira said teasingly as she kept gaining altitude with each beat of her wings.

Eragon gasped after one last effort to make Saphira let go. His face was all red by now, and it was not only due to the strong grip that bound him in place_. That's easy for you to say, when I'm the one who's being squeezed to death because my caring partner-of-mind-and-soul has nothing better to do than to play games with me_, he spat, funneling a part of his anger through their bond.

_Oh, but the games __had not yet started. Haven't you said a few days ago that you would like to witness my impressive flying skills? _

A wry smile accompanied by a horrified look contorted Eragon's face, making him appear like an innocent lamb in front of a dragon. _N, no no that's not what I meant! I only wanted to say that…_

The Rider did not even manage to think what he had in mind as Saphira performed a fast loop with a spinning motion at the end. The force exerted on his body and the fast alternation between the land and the sky combined with the spinning motion at the end almost made Eragon throw up.

And it did not end here. Deciding to add a bit more to her Rider's ordeal, Saphira closed her mind, disallowing any conversation between her and Eragon from taking place. Then, with a mighty roar, she began to perform yet another aerial display before she finally touched the ground, freeing Eragon from her grip.

Being all dizzy and to the point of fainiting, Eragon did not think twice before dropping his head on the soft ground. _Thank you, Saphira. You have a real talent when it comes to lifting my mood. Remind me to come back to you whenever I feel bad_, finished Eragon, his head still spinning due to the recent experience.

Saphira said nothing, but a suppressed growl-like sound signified that she was barely restraining from laughing at the confused Rider's statement.

It took a short while for Eragon to fully come back to his senses where he could feel that he's standing on solid ground again. The only thing he really felt grateful- and kept him from lashing out at Saphira- was that the blue dragon offered him a moment of peace without causing the slightest disturbance.

Eragon slowly got up on his feet and took a few steps towards Saphira, who was resting nearby. _You know that I will find a way to repay you for your kindness, right?_ Said Eragon calmly as he walked up towards Saphira, brushing his hand against the smooth scales of her neck.

Saphira growled in surprise and turned her head around, _you can try, little one, but I am afraid that you will never be able to outsmart a dragon._

Eragon crossed his arms, _so you say, but I will be the one getting cocky after I will prove you the opposite._

Saphira snorted a puff of smoke in Eragon's direction as a small snarl darkened her features, making her appear quite threatening_. I am not getting cocky! That is the reality, and you should accept it without questioning my standing. I am a dragon and…,_

Suddenly, Eragon could feel a familiar presence brushing against his mind. Realizing that it was one of the thirteen spell casters, he let him in without hesitation.

_Shadeslayer, you must make your way back to Feinster at once! Galbatorix himself has come __into our city, laying waste to the main gate and killing anyone that tried to get in his way. Arya and the rest of the spell casters moved forward and engaged him, but I am not sure of their success, not against such a powerful enemy_, said the elf.

_Thank you for notifying me. If Galbatorix has finally decided to come out of his seclusion, then I will need as much information about his combat prowess as you may offer,_ he said, trying to keep his thoughts coherent, but without being able to hide the cold feeling of fear that started to embrace his being.

_I cannot tell you much, Shadeslayer, for I have left as fast as I could to deliver you this message. The only thing I could see were a mass of soldiers that surrounded him, and in the next moment every last one of them fell to the ground. Only the sound of their falling bodies was heard, for no scream escaped when they fell,_ answered Erian.

_Go…go back and help the others. I will be there as fast as I can__, _he finished and cut the link between them.

Eragon lay in complete shock at the sudden and harsh revelation. It was not only Galbatorix's presence that made him feel uneasy, but also the fact that he decided to come by himself right after the Varden had secured Feinster.

Feeling Eragon's fear and doubts, Saphira let out a deafening roar, _Gather yourself Eragon and don't let incertitude get the best of you. If that egg-breaker has indeed come here, then it is time for us to fulfill our duty and put an end to his miserable life!_

_You make it sound so easy, Saphira, but in truth it isn't! We are not talking about Murtagh or a shade, this is Galbatorix! Although I despise as much as you do, I cannot help but feel weak and insignificant __in front of him, _Eragon lamented.

Everything that had happened so far led to this: Saphira's hatching, Brom's death, Durza's demise, the blood oath celebration and the training he received under Oromis and Glaedr. All this chain of events had made him more powerful and transformed him into a fitting Rider, yet something was amiss. Among the feelings of spite and anger directed at the dark king, something else was hidden, something which made him dread the moment where he would have to face the king himself.

His train of troubling thoughts has come to a stop when Saphira decided to grind some sense into him. With a quick swipe of her paw, she unbalanced the Rider and pinned him to the ground, bringing her snarling snout inches away from his face,

_Do you want to say that Glaedr's sacrifice has been for nothing? That both his and Oromis's deaths have been in vain? They trained you, Eragon! They trained us both so we could bring down this usurper when the time will come, and now you cower at the sound of his name? WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?_

_There is nothing wrong with me, Saphira! It is you that needs to see the reality of the situation! Galbatorix has killed hundreds of Riders, many of them who were much more skilled than I am. Do you honestly think that I could stand up to someone that had hundreds of years to refine his swordsmanship and perfect himself in the arts of magic?_ Eragon swayed his head to the right, staring at a tree aimlessly. He knew that the time will come for him to fulfill his destiny, yet he felt unprepared and unsure of himself.

_I understand that we are at disadvantage, but all the free races are counting on us, Eragon. Unlike Galbatorix, we will not be alone when we will have to face him__; Arya, the other elves and the rest of the Varden will be there, and with our combined forces, we could drive him back. That's where your power lies, and if we do not put an end to Galbatorix's life you will lose even more of those you hold dear_, said Saphira with conviction. Although she was a bit too harsh, it was something needed in order to motivate Eragon.

Eragon could not deny the truth in her words, which were like a righteous stick meant to slap him in the head hard enough for him to realize that there was no easy way for him to escape such burden. His mind drifted to Brom and Oromis, and then, he imagined Arya dying at the hands of Galbatorix. Such dark thoughts made him clench both of his fists with determination.

_You're right. For the sake of the Varden, I must do this. If Galbatorix manages to kill the leaders, then all of it, all we have accomplished has been for naught…_

Saphira slowly moved away, allowing her Rider to get up. Her fierce snarl has completely vanished, and the rage has left her eyes. Only then her deep sapphire eyes gave away the same incertitude that plagued him. Eragon's expression lightened as he slowly realized that she was just as troubled as he was, the only difference being that she was not showing it.

Eragon slowly walked towards her and hugged her neck, allowing his feelings of gratitude and love to be shared across their bond, _I cannot tell you how glad I am that you are with me, Saphira, for I would be lost without you. You are the spark of light that guides me in the profound darkness and fills my being with courage and hope when they have deserted me. _

Sapphira hummed in pleasure, _I am as well, little one, and I wish we could spend the rest of the time flying together, but now is the time to do what we've been preparing for._

Eragon acknowledged with a nod and jumped into the saddle that was placed on Saphira's back. _Let us go then, partner-of-mind-and-soul. I don't want to keep that bastard waiting._

With a loud roar, Saphira leaped into the air, flapping her massive wings furiously. No one knew what king Galbatorix was up to, and time was of the essence.

Wind swished past Eragon's ears as he and Saphira made their way towards Feinster as fast as they could. After a couple of tense moments in which they talked about whatever strategy they could use to overcome their opponent, the city of Feinster finally came into sight.

Eragon gasped in astonishment as his sharp eyes noticed the damage done to the main city gate. There was an uneven hole that destroyed a large part of the massive gate, leaving only the bolts that secured it to the tough stone wall intact. Debris of wood and steel was spread all over the place, some pieces being as large as a horse.

_It must have taken a tremendous amount of force to break the massive gate to such extent using a conventional spell like "break" or "explode". Perhaps Galbatorix is more craftier than simply abusing the Eldunari he has in possession_, thought Eragon as his eyes analyzed the city, checking for any noticeable damage that could be done while he was absent.

_That is why we must be extra careful. The true extent of his powers is shrouded in darkness, and we won't know what he is capable of until we would face him in direct combat_, responded Saphira, having heard her Rider's thoughts.

_That is why we will have to fight on defensive in the beginning. I will draw his attention towards me and evaluate his __prowess with the sword so I could find a weakness that we could exploit. He will probably start using spells as soon as you join in, hence it's best to keep out of the fight as much as possible, for a duel of magic will deplete our energies way faster than his own._

Saphira growled in protest, _I won't let you go and face that monster alone. You know very well that bad things happen when I'm not there to watch over you_.

Eragon patted her reassuringly, _I appreciate your help, Saphira, but I already explained my reasoning to you. It would be harder for me to focus my attention on his blade and your large bulk at the same time._

The dragon's growl slowly diminished in strength as no reply came forth. By now, the two of them have reached the outskirts of Feinster, making a step closer towards the final confrontation. Saphira slowly descended, trying to keep a low profile by making as less noise as she could with the flapping of her wings.

Eragon quickly dismounted as soon as Saphira and dasher towards the gates as fast as he could, leaving his partner-of-heart-and-mind behind. He was about to open his mind and contact Arya and the others, but he knew that this would also weaken his mental defenses, allowing the king to exploit this weakness.

Biting his lip in frustration, Eragon tried to keep his emotions in check and focus on one thing: to bring about Galbatorix's demise.

...

The barracks situated on the opposite side of Feinster bolstered with activity as every available soldier prepared to face the threat that entered their city. While the others distracted the enemy, some soldiers recovered their injured and led them to safety at Nasuada's request. From what the guards heard, the enemy was not interested in slaughtering the whole city, but they did not want to take any chances.

"This man is invincible! He's faster than an elf and stronger than an urgal! How could we hope to defeat him?" Asked a man on a scared voice while he uncertainly buckled a heavy helmed on top his head. The heavy, crude shaped metal was dented and felt uncomfortable on his egg shaped head, but the soldier did not protest. It wouldn't help much against such mighty opponent, yet the higher officers requested that every Varden shall wear proper equipment.

"Cheer up, Veslan. It's not everyday a common soldier like us has the chance to slay a king, eh?" Said another on a frail voice, which couldn't even inspire a kitten. From under his helmet, Veslan tried to sketch an unsure smile, but his lips barely contorted the way he wanted them to be.

"Enough talking! We have a duty to fulfill!" The sudden, deep and commanding voice caused Veslan to jump tensely from his position, his flabby arms swinging like a piece of cloth in concordance with his body as he turned around to face the commander. As he did so, a loose hand knocked a helmet that fell on another helmet with a clang, and soon, a real ruckus had unleashed. Clang!Bang! Every piece of armor now lay on the ground, cluttered in a mass of unrecognizable pile of metal and steel. Every single soldier from the barracks switched their gaze towards Veslan, making him feel most uncomfortable under their disapproving gaze.

"M-my bad," he stuttered, smiling like an innocent lamb. BANG! The amplitude of the sound almost deafened the clumsy soldier.

"Lets see if your little clumsy act makes the enemy smile too," said the commander as he stabbed him with the pommel of the sword in the back, pushing him forward. "Everyone, move out! We have a meeting with destiny." Although his position should impose respect and a little fear, most of the soldiers nodded with half a delay and followed him outside of the barracks.

When everyone was out, he moved in front of the detachment, much to Veslan's relief. A loud cough put them all on guard, "The enemy is strong, I won't deny it. From the report I received, this man single handedly dispatched several of our men." The soldiers glanced at each other, murmuring their opinions and fears. Everyone was frightened. Veslan could see it in their eyes, except for one man. His friend, Rolin, steadied his sword firmly and glanced at him with a resolute look. It was as if he reached an inner accord with himself, no matter what would happen in the upcoming battle. The commander briefly interrupted his thoughts.

"Gather your wits, keep your swords steady, and may our courage prevail!" Every soldier lifted his sword to cheer, and Veslan did the same. Shortly after, the whole battalion started to march towards the main gate, each step carrying them further to glory or demise.

The much dreaded moment was upon them, and there was no way back. When they reached the parameter of the main gate, the small group of soldiers stopped behind one of the buildings for cover, the clanging of their boots halting for a brief, tense moment. Wails of anguish and fear stirred the hearts of the frightened soldiers, but the stoic commander threw them a much needed reassuring look. After the whole group settled behind the building, the commander signaled the soldiers to wait while he peeked with his eagle eyes from behind the building.

Veslan felt his stomach knotting with fear while the food he ate before began making its ascension up his throat. He swallowed dryly to refrain from embarrassing himself in front of his fellow companions, yet his doubts never ceased to torment him. Veslan tried to close his eyes, to calm himself down, but the commander's whisper immediately put him on guard.

"Gather around me, quick." Careful not to make any powerful and unneeded noise that might alert the King, the soldiers grouped around the commander. Veslan's eyes could simply not settle in one place due to nerves. He had the impression that the King might appear out of nowhere and deliver a blow that will bring forth his demise. However, the commander seemed more confident, his bravery being the sole factor that kept these people united.

With a combination of quick gestures and briefly explained strategy, he ordered four of the soldiers with bows to flank the enemy while two archers tactically sneaked through the buildings. Their objective was to find a safe spot on the sides and rain havoc upon the King while the frontal attack breached his defenses.

The piercing cry of death of yet another soldier filled the air, sending shudders through everyone in the immediate area. With the numbers of the remaining allies decreasing, the commander unsheathed his sword, tapped it and then ran his finger across the blade, murmuring something under his breath. Then, he glanced with his unyielding brown eyes at everyone and smiled before he ran out in the open, releasing a heartening battle cry. The remaining soldiers joined their leader with similar intimidating shouts, save for Veslan, whose battle cry was more of a meow of a scared cat that fell in a river.

The sight surrounding the King was unreal; there were corpses everywhere, and Veslan barely suppressed his vomit when his eyes met the dead elves covered in thick vines. The soldiers strode into the heart of battle, balancing the numbers of the remaining soldiers who helplessly swung their swords at their almighty opponent. The King, who held his hooded head down previously, looked towards Veslan and his group, "Rejoice, my helpless puppets. Nasuada sent more lambs to the slaughter." His deep, chilling voice froze Veslan in fear. He just stood there while his comrades passed by him, lifting their swords in glory before joining the endless clang of metal against metal.

Everything seemed to slow down around Veslan as arrows buzzed past his ears and wails of anguish herald the demise of another Varden soldier from the cold green blade of the King. He slowly moved his head around, trying to comprehend what was going on. It all looked surreal to him, and one could read it in his terrorized and powerless stare. How could a single man face two detachments of soldiers and still be the victor?

The two archers from the sides emerged from their hiding spots, launching two arrows while the commander and his men swung wherever they could with great speed. Veslan almost skipped a heartbeat when a revelation struck him: this could be it! By directing his full attention to the frontal attack, the robed man could not stop the arrows in time. Because of the commander's ingenuity, this whole war could end, right here!

With inhuman speed, the King flailed backwards and flicked the green sword aimlessly; or so it seemed to Veslan's eyes. Before his awestruck expression could even leave the paralyzed state, Galbatorix stormed through the soldiers like an unstoppable force. It was all a blur to him, but the sound of swords hitting the ground with a clang was enough to reveal him what just happened. Then, taking advantage of the stunned soldiers, he sheathed his blade, picked up two swords and spun around, throwing the two swords towards the archers, who died almost instantly if it wasn't for their faint cough.

Everyone was completely shocked. Even the stoic commander, who bravely ventured into a fight he knew he could not win, felt powerless against a higher force. Being the only one who still had a weapon, Veslan wanted to aid his comrades; he wished it so much, yet his unusually weak and trembling legs refused to obey.

_Run, now!_ Veslan almost screamed in terror when he heard these two words inside his mind, like someone was incredibly close to him! However, instead of fleeing, he allowed his sword to fall from his hands as he brought his arms around his head, too frightened and confused to do anything. His companions, who previously stood there like statues, used this opportunity to turn around and run like the King himself chased them. For a moment, Veslan thought that Galbatorix would not allow them to flee, but then, something happened.

Past Veslan's right and left, two swords whistled through the air like an invisible force guided them, heading straight towards the king. Before the swords met their target, a tiny yet powerful blue light descended upon the King. It all happened so fast; too fast for someone like him to process. When the blue light impacted with Galbatorix, a torrent of whirling blue flames was unleashed, accompanied by a blast wave of hot air so powerful that it shoved everyone from their bipedal position.

With a speed he did not deem possible, Veslan pushed his torso upwards in order to witness this remarkable power. It was more of a sinister curiosity than actual wish to understand what happened. The intense and hungry blue flames created an incinerating and dazzling curtain that could consume any living being. When the flames started to dissipate, Veslan's jaw dropped in awe. "Sh…shadeslayer…" his numb lips tried to murmur. His blue sword was intercepted by the green one of Galbatorix, who saw right through his attack. But this did not matter to Veslan. Eragon Shadeslayer, the Varden's only hope, clashed swords with the King, ready to inflict justice upon the unworthy.

**Thumbs up and review if you liked Eragon's , the most wanted battle is upon us, and I can guess how eager you are to see who is going win. Because this chapter was rather long( 4.000 or so words), I will have to make the next chapter a lil shorter so that it starts and end with the battle. In case it is too short, I'll see what there is to do while keepings its epicness. Before jumping to conclusions such as: This fight has to be really long! It's the fight between Galby and Eragon! I advise you to wait patiently and see how it ends, because it matters**


	5. Battle of the Riders

**I had no idea how to edit stuff, so I deleted and reposted this chapter that has some fixes and a better ending. The previous ending was really bad, so I guess this worth the effort for what is to come to the plot.**

With only one thing in mind, Eragon dashed through the buildings of Feinster with all the speed he could muster. Every second could spell the death of another soldier of the Varden who could not resist the relentless onslaught enforced by the King. If there were any Varden that could stand such powerful opponent: it was him.

When he reached the battlefield his heart almost skipped a beat the moment his brown eyes locked on a robed man who seemed to be toying with the helpless men. Everything he had done, everyone he lost had led to this particular moment. Brisingr stood firmly in his hand, ready to slash the tyrant everywhere it would sneak; anger and fury welled up in the unflinching gaze of Eragon. Yet, as every other human, he couldn't help but feel the fear accumulating in him like a vile poison. To keep his thoughts coherent and not let his courage falter, Eragon clenched his teeth and picked up a fallen bow and an arrow in one hand along with two swords that he hung on to his belt. Unlike Galbatorix, he still had the element of surprise, and with a little fortune, this fight would end before it even begins.

After taking a deep and reassuring breath, Eragon used a spell to give himself enough power to jump on top of a building that offered him an upper view of the fight. Suddenly, the King disarmed the guards, apart from one who stood away from the fight. Unexpected as it was, Eragon knew he could use this opportunity to strike swift and decisively, but not before telling the guards mentally to run away. With alacrity, he placed the swords on the roof and moved the arrow to his right hand.

"Brisingr," he whispered while nocking the arrow carefully. _You meet your end here, Galbatorix._ "Risa!" Eragon murmured, sending the two swords flying towards his enemy with speed immediately before he fired the arrow upwards in his direction. With unflagging fortitude, Eragon jumped off the building and readied his sword for the battle that would end it all.

Right after the dazzling flames dissipated into nothingness, Eragon slashed with his sword in a flurry of fast attacks, hoping that speed alone could overcome the king after the fiery explosion and expose a flaw in his defense. Much to his dismay, the green blade moved with impressive alacrity, intercepting all of Eragon's attacks. It was as if his training had all been in vain, yet it was too fast for him to lose his hope.

Gritting his teeth, Eragon performed a quick slash at Galbatorix's exposed arm, almost sure that his fast thinking would turn the tides of battle. His sword collided yet again with the king's blade, but Eragon was aware that something like this would happen: with a quick move, Eragon folded his body as he pulled his sword into a spinning slash. Brisingr moved like a blur through the air, the sharp blade ready to cut anything in its path.

A resonating clang made Eragon's sensitive ears protest at the unpleasant sound as the indestructible blue blade met another one of its kin. Then, not even a moment after the king managed to defend himself against such a quick strike, a powerful blow made Eragon's head explode with pain as Galbatorix brought his arm to the side and smacked the young Rider with the back of his hand.

Reacting on instinct, Eragon rolled on the ground, planting a safe distance between him and his enemy so he could recover from his dizziness.

"You disappoint me, Eragon. I had higher expectation from the last free Rider, knowing that Oromis trained you personally. Quite the irony, I must say," he said before pulling off his hood, revealing the face of the one who was feared throughout Alagaësia.

"That old fool seems to have taken his last secrets to his grave, rather than sharing them with the Varden's last hope," Galbatorix continued on an amused tone and grabbed his robe with one hand, throwing it away. From his lower position, Eragon clenched his teeth and strengthened his grip on Brisingr when he saw the face of Galbatorix, the one Rider who killed an entire order.

Much to his surprise, Galbatorix looked imposing and somewhat charismatic compared to the image he had previously formed mentally from the fragments of rumors. Even if his ominous emerald eyes sparkled with frightening strength that was enough to send chills down anyone's spine, his dark hair was well groomed and the almost perfect face made him look just like a normal human. Still, mistaking him for one was an error, because even if his looks were not exaggerated, his expression still inspired a feeling of uneasiness, like he was the vessel of an ancient and mysterious power. His chin was hidden beneath a short, black beard that was finely trimmed.

Frowning deeply, Eragon maintained his composure, "This is just the beginning, Galbatorix. You have no idea what I am capable of." A smile of defiance stretched across the King's face when his words reached his ears. He seemed quite pleased with Eragon's courage and determination.

"Your naivety amuses me, Eragon. Just because a dragon hatches for you, pride and aspiration towards the absolute crawl their way so fast to the top of your ideals?" he laughed chillingly, but Eragon did not falter. An unbendable will and unyielding principles were the only barriers that protected everything he treasured the most.

"Saphira chose me because of what she had felt when I touched her egg. She hatched for me willingly and was not forced into slavery when she was young, like your dragon!" he snapped vengefully. Contrary to his beliefs, Galbatorix did not even move a face muscle. His impassive expression denoted no sadness, no remorse, no feelings… Was that the product of the past he experienced? A calm reply snapped Eragon out of his musings.

"Still you cling to your misguided principles. You consider yourself one of a kind, when in fact, another person could be here in your place." Eragon felt the painful stab of doubt edging at the back of his mind. Ever since Saphira hatched for him, he never doubted the power of the bond that formed between them. _N...no, he's doing it on purpose;_ he tried to reassure himself while he began crawling away from the dark, indomitable presence in front of him.

"Saphira loves me! My friends care about me!" The harsh tone was laced with the sweet hesitation of doubt, making Galbatorix sketch a sinister grin.

"Love… you call it sincere, I call it a blissful lie. It deludes your mind from what really matters by offering you nothing but false promises," said the king solemnly, the distance between him and Eragon shrinking with each of his slow steps.

"I will not believe any more of your lies, traitor! What do you know about companionship when every bond you form is one of slavery?" The king's merciless glance made Eragon gulp emptily, his courage wavering before the stoic presence that was now a few feet away from him.

Summoning his wits, he almost shouted with conviction, "You brought only suffering upon the people of Alagaësia, and everyone despises you for that!" After taking one more step, Galbatorix stopped and pointed the tip of the sword towards the helpless Rider who still crawled on the floor like a helpless prey. "Haven't the Varden done the same? How many lives were lost because of your pitiful rebellion?"

No fast answer came. Galbatorix's words were like poison coated arrows meant to destroy his inner defenses and make him vulnerable. After inspecting his immediate surroundings for anything that he might use to surprise the king, Eragon replied to buy himself more time, "It's all because of your doing!" He continued to withdraw until his hand made contact with a cold, bloodied surface. He barely suppressed a yelp of shock when he turned his head around and saw the dead elves, their previous serenity washed away by death's embrace.

"You should see yourself, Eragon," Galbatorix chuckled, summoning Eragon's awareness in an instant. His heart was pounding and a thin layer of cold perspiration made slithered down his temple, but his grip on Brisingr never lessened. "A youngling such as you can not hope to comprehend the reality of this conflict. It's far above your capabilities for now," Galbatorix added mockingly while his eyes shifted towards the dead elves. Then, much to his surprise, Eragon noticed something; he had never seen a person looking at someone with such disgust and contempt.

"Such arrogant little insects deserve to be squashed without hesitation." His hateful tone unnerved Eragon even more, up to the point where he felt that he couldn't take this mental torture anymore.

Galbatorix pointed at the dead elves with one hand, a smug look on his face, "Your precious feelings/sentiments will not be of any help when the cold grip of death will grab the ones you treasure one by one, until the veil of darkness would consume everything. And then you will remain alone."

"Stop it! I will not hear any more poison-coated words, you cold-blooded murderer!" snapped Eragon as he jumped onto his feet, lunging at the king with pure hatred in his heart.

Galbatorix smiled bitterly, assuming his usual fighting stance before Eragon even swung at him. Such an impulsive attack was obvious to him, and fear lodged into Eragon's heart when he slowly accepted that Galbatorix could read him like an open book. Maybe this was what he wanted all along, to trap him in a point of no escape.

Soon enough the two blades clashed again in a mighty blow that resonated through the area. Letting his rage and his hatred towards the king guide his blows, Eragon pulled his sword back, unleashing its destructive force in a mighty slash as soon as he was close enough. Although the powerful hit was easily countered by the king, Eragon slashed and hacked with unnatural strength and speed, pouring everything he got to slay this vile-tongued killer.

The king quickly parried each blow without allowing Eragon to find the slightest flaw in his defense. After he leaned his shoulder to evade a vertical slash, the king retaliated with his own attack, forcing Eragon into defense as he rushed to evade the incoming blow, which would otherwise decapitate him. Eragon barely had time to protect himself from the green blade when it flew into his direction. Using his skill and finesse, he briefly blocked it with Brisingr before jumping to the side. Pulling his body into a roll, the young Rider disengaged from the battle.

_Curses! He's as powerful as I could ever imagine: he's stronger than anything I've fought before and his speed easily matches that of an elf, not to mention his skill with the blade, _Eragon thought while he retreated to a safe distance from Galbatorix, who eyed him with a small, evil smile on his face.

Eragon's brown eyes looked everywhere around Galbatorix to see if there could be something around he could use to his advantage, and he immediately spotted something. Bloodied corpses of fallen soldiers littered the ground around Galbatorix, some of them being placed in such a position that created a corridor of death from the main gate towards this spot. Eragon was horrified to see how many have succumbed to the deadly green blade that lay in the possession of the most powerful man in Alagaësia.

This act of cruelty only strengthened Eragon's resolution to bring this man down and put an end to this senseless killing. With his eyes fixed on a sword that lay near the corpse of an armored soldier, Eragon quickly gathered his wits as his grip tightened around Brisingr.

Eragon burst into a run, using all the speed he could muster to get to the fallen sword. He was almost there when, without notice, the same green blade whistled through the air, coming dangerously close to his shoulder. Without thinking, Eragon dropped on the ground and skidded a small distance on the tough, rocky surface.

The glimmering white sword of the guard was within his reach and Eragon quickly extended his left hand to grab it. Clang! A powerful sound came as the blue and green blade clashed once more, this time dangerously close to Eragon's chest as he managed to parry yet another blow that could herald his end. However, all things were not good for him, and Eragon groaned in pain as his arm was not only bad positioned, but also under a lot of strain as Galbatorix pressed his sword down, its tip almost reaching Eragon's neck.

"Thrysta vindr," Eragon whispered, adopting a desperate measure to escape this dangerous position. Suddenly, the body of the dead guard twitched before it rammed into Galbatorix's legs, making him withdraw his blade due to the sudden contact, forcing him to back off few steps

Using the distraction to his advantage, Eragon quickly got up and lunged at Galbatorix, trying to take advantage of this short moment of disruption. With his sword readied, Eragon performed two quick slashes at Galbatorix's torso, followed by a quick thrust to his neck. It all happened much faster than any normal human could comprehend, but Galbatorix was different. After he gracefully evaded all of the attacks directed at him, he unleashed his own series of fast attacks, which made Eragon stagger backwards.

The deadly sword cut through the air with incredible speed, and Eragon was barely holding his ground as he struggled to block all of the incoming blows. Panting and with his wrist aching badly due to the force which the two swords collided, Eragon attempted to disengage and retreat from the fight, but Galbatorix was giving him no such options.

Eragon saw his opportunity the moment when he locked swords with Galbatorix, and, acting as his instincts told him to, he gathered his strength and pushed the king's blade with all his force before attempting to flee. Eragon gritted his teeth as his opponent did not even falter under the force he applied. After a tense, exhausting moment in which Eragon's muscles burned with pain, the king quickly retracted his blade. The moment could not have been worse, for Eragon yanked his sword downwards due to the force exerted by his arms on the blade and offered the enemy the much sought vulnerability.

Eragon gasped in shock as Galbatorix smiled in an evil way before he slashed at Eragon's chest. Eragon quickly moved his sword to defend his exposed body, but this simple mistake spelled his end. Brisingr was not even half way from its counterpart when a spurt of blood was released the moment when the sharp tip cut through the fragile skin.

A loud scream of agony escaped Eragon's throat, which was replaced by a gagging sound as he felt the air being drained out of him when a powerful force hit him in the stomach. Eragon's body rolled on the ground like a mere boulder before he stopped, another shout escaping him as he couldn't resist the tremendous amounts of pain he was going through.

Drops of blood splashed on the cold stone, dying the ground red where Eragon's shivering body lay. _I have… have to_, thought Eragon, the same structure of words repeating itself in his confused mind endlessly. He couldn't truly grasp the situation he was in or how he even lost the upper hand. Everything happened so fast, and the slight of moment of carelessness exposed a flaw in his defense that led to this moment.

Not long before the king struck him, Eragon felt a familiar presence brush against his mind, yet he did not dare to open his mind, even if that meant being cut off from Saphira. The feeling of helplessness and despair was only subdued by one of fear, for the king could launch a mental attack at any time in an attempt to subdue him.

_No… I must do this without Saphira's help. I must,_ thought Eragon bitterly, almost in the brink of crying. Saphira's presence was the thing he missed the most in a moment like this, yet she was not here to share and alleviate the suffering he was going through. Eragon released a loud cough; his breathing was rapid and irregular, complementing the sudden shivers that racked his body the moment he made contact with the tough ground.

Eragon raised his head, his gaze fixing on the king whose malicious green eyes looked at him with pity while a small, pleased smile brightened his features. His sword was sheathed by now, and Eragon realized that he's probably the target of some wicked game that the king decided to start the moment he visited Feinster.

_The bastard ended the life of Oromis and Glaedr as soon as he had the opportunity, killed countless Riders yet he dares not to finish me off? I will show him that he is greatly mistaken by underestimating the power of a Rider_, thought Eragon as he placed a shaky hand on the gems embedded into his belt. Then, in an almost inaudible whisper, Eragon began to chant in the ancient language, feeding the spell with the energy from the belt of Beloth the Wise.

A groan of pain escaped him as he felt his chest sting with intense pain while the muscles and the skin stitched together. Then, as sudden as it began, the spell ended, leaving only the red stained cloth as a remainder of the battle wound.

Galbatorix clapped his hands enthusiastically at his glorious comeback, "You know, Eragon, for a moment I thought that you would remain on the ground like the worthless, pitiful excuse of a Rider you are. It is faint-hearted weaklings like you who remained inside the city, wasting away their miserable lives as they dared not to fight the eventual threats that arose during the time of the Riders. Cowards like you are the reason why the Urgals were left unchecked for so long," he reproached angrily, unsheathing his blade.

"I know what happened to your dragon, Galbatorix. It was because of your recklessness and tempered nature the reason she perished. It's your own fault that you couldn't protect her, not that of the other Riders!" spat Eragon.

Fury began to well up in Galbatorix's eyes when he received such a defiant answer from a simpleton, "You know nothing about what happened, boy, save for what those arrogant elves imprinted in that thick skull of yours with their trickery." Just when Eragon tried to reply, Galbatorix cut him off, "You blame me for what happened, yet you still live in the deception conjured by Oromis."

Eragon clenched his teeth, rage boiling inside him as he couldn't take his eyes off the dark king, whose imposing stature and half-wicked smile was driving him insane. Eragon's left hand aimlessly touched the dusty ground behind him while his attention was focused on Galbatorix for fear that the king might take advantage of his lack of attention should he turn his head away from him. He could feel something cold and smooth as his fingers clenched around the metal object that resembled a blade. The metal of the sword screeched as it was dragged on the stone floor, but Eragon could not care less as he turned the sword around and grabbed it firmly by its handle.

A stray arrow whistled through the air at an incredible speed before it bounced of harmlessly, inches away from Galbatorix's neck. The king simply grunted and turned his head around. By doing the same out of sheer instinct, Eragon realized that more guards must had hidden behind the buildings.

The sound of something crashing into a solid object, followed by a loud scream of pain that appeared to come out of nowhere chilled the blood in his veins. Even stranger, it all seemed to happen unnaturally fast, for the king's lips did not even whisper the faintest sound.

A cold chill ran through Eragon's spine, realizing that Galbatorix just did what was probably the most risky achievements a spell caster could attain: using a spell and directing it towards something with only his mind. It seemed like a trivial thing to do at first when Vanir first used this to defeat him in Ellesméra, but after he learned from Oromis about all the risks and the implications this method had, Eragon realized how difficult must it be to focus and succeed in casting a spell.

"Surprised, Eragon? I sometimes wonder if those elves actually taught you something," Galbatorix said tauntingly, a smirk spreading across his face.

"They did, and I will use this knowledge to bring about your demise", said the Rider as he quickly got up and charged at the king. Galbatorix also readied his blade as Eragon dashed towards him with inhuman speed, slashing furiously with both of his swords. Surprisingly, the king easily blocked, dodged or parried most of the relentless blows directed at him, but Eragon knew he had a slight advantage over his foe while he brandished his weapons with expertise. Galbatorix sidestepped while also leaning his body as the glimmering steel blade passed inches away from his shoulder, while the blue blade quickly made its way from the right, aiming at his torso. A loud clang followed after the impact between Brisingr and the green blade, while another one was heard shortly after another hit that was supposed to slice at his neck was deflected.

Eragon pressed on as hard as he could, even though fatigue started to slow down his movements. His swords moved through the air like mere glimmering shadows, yet none of his hits managed to reach his mark as his opponent skillfully avoided all the attacks directed at him. For a man his age, Galbatorix was surely agile.

After another one of his attacks was parried by the king's blade, Eragon thrust Brisingr forward after Galbatorix parried the attack from his other sword, which was meant to slash at his calf. It seemed like the attack would succeed, for Galbatorix could not have enough time to either dodge or parry the lithe blow, but again, he was no mere human, and Eragon clenched his teeth in frustration the moment when the king jumped to the side, flicking his sword at Eragon.

The Rider barely had time to notice the green sword that cut through the air, aiming at his exposed neck. Using the speed and finesse of an elf, Eragon leaned his body backwards, evading the sharp edge by a hairsbreadth. Then, he quickly whirled around and slashed at the king with both of his swords.

Galbatorix planted his sword sideway, easily blocking the two blades, which smashed into his own, creating a loud metallic noise. Eragon did not falter, and soon enough he resumed his attacks with renewed vigor, doing everything he could to best his opponent. Quick slashes, thrusts of his swords, body movements combined with fast attacks, none of these seemed to have any effect on Galbatorix, who stood his ground without acquiring the slightest scratch.

With a quick flick of his sword, he yet again parried the common sword that struck at his exposed leg, but this was not all. By brandishing his weapon with the expertise of a master, Galbatorix made a quick slash, then rotated his wrist and spun around to imbalance his opponent.

The green blade slid all the way towards the base, catching the handle of the sword. Then, with a quick and powerful movement, the king yanked the blade out of Eragon's hand, who barely had the time to comprehend what just happened. The strength and the cunningness of this move caused the dead soldier's sword to fly away from Eragon's weak grip. He had no time to marvel or question himself how it happened, however, as the same green blade came again at him, forcing him to back off slightly.

Immediately after Eragon's retreat, Galbatorix caught the blade in his hand, rotating it and performing a few slashes to test its capabilities. A faint grunt of confirmation escaped him as his lips widened into a small smile and his eyes fixed on Eragon, a cold look in his imposing stare.

Eragon breathed rapidly, trying to recover some of his lost strength. He felt his arm muscles burning due to the repeated strikes and parries. The grip on his sword was also weak, for the powerful grip on Brisingr's handle made his hand feel slightly numb.

_I cannot keep this much longer on my own. Without Arya and the other elves, my chances are slim,_ thought Eragon as he realized just how much weaker he was without the others lending their aid whenever he needed to face more powerful opponents. Brom saved him from the Ra'zac and he had Arya and the thirteen spell casters when he managed to drive Murtagh back. But who would be here to help him this time?

Eragon clenched his teeth as Galbatorix darted towards him, his eyes denoting a killing intent. With each passing second, Galbatorix would most likely lose his patience and unleash his true powers. Still, Eragon possessed one advantage over his enemy; surprise. _If I don't get rid of one of his swords, he will overpower me_, he thought while parrying a swing aimed at his chest. His biggest fears finally came true, for in the next moment, Galbatorix jumped back and assumed a peculiar stance. "Lets see if you can catch up with me this time, " the king shouted and headed straight towards him, his Rider sword hidden behind his back and the common sword placed horizontally in front of him.

When he was close enough, Galbatorix brought the green sword in an upper slash while he flicked his right arm to the lower parts of Eragon. Confused and greatly overwhelmed by this sudden change in style, Eragon bended backwards and parried the green sword, but the onslaught did not end here.

After bringing both of his weapons from the sides in a cross, which Eragon barely parried, Galbatorix gracefully swung his left blade and stabbed with the other at his chest, but not before he performed a whirlwind that scratched Eragon's forearms. By bringing his sword to his right to parry a dangerous thrust, Eragon couldn't evade his opponent's twist, who used momentum from his previous strikes to swivel on his right leg and then lunged at Eragon, landing on his unprotected left side.

By not mustering enough speed, the Rider couldn't block the green sword that penetrated his left shoulder or parry the other blade that scraped his thigh. Even if he howled in pain, his opponent had not finished his dance of steel. Seizing the advantage, Galbatorix crouched and landed two slashes on both of Eragon's legs and then twisted his left arm past Brisingr to scrap his cheek with the green blade. Overwhelmed with pain, Eragon could do little to block the fast, unrelenting strikes that seemed to come from nowhere. _Too…fast,_ he thought while he gritted his teeth. He could barely stand up and the pain coming from his left shoulder paralyzed his left side. And the worst had not even happened.

With no sword to constrict his movements, Galbatorix performed a double thrust at Eragon's arms and then spun around, sending the green sword through his left side ribs and planted the handle of the other sword in his chest, drawing what little air he received out of Eragon. "Thrysta vindr," the king whispered. If that was not bad enough as it was, the Rider was then slammed against the wall of a building by a very powerful force that welled up in front of him and detonated with devastating effect.

Eragon's vision flickered as he felt his conscience leaving him. Every part of his body throbbed with pain, a thin layer of blood slithered across his face and the feeble grip on Brisingr was about to let go of the weapon that served him so well. Time slowed down around Eragon, creating an eerie realm just for him. Was this his end? Eragon did not know, nor could he do anything that might change this terrible prospect.

His conscience halfway gone, the reality merged with the imaginary, and he could no longer make out what was real and what happened in his mind. The image of the dark king in front of him was nothing but an obscuring presence that grew fainter by the second. "I… can't…I don't…" his lips whispered incoherently.

His life flashed before his eyes, from the moment he found Saphira's egg until this very end. He saw Brom taking the dagger that was meant for him, Oromis being killed by the one he failed to kill and Glaedr's desperation and terror when his partner faded away. But from all these memories, one seemed particularly vivid. It was a lesson about the powers of the Belt of Beloth the Wise and how he could use the nature's energy that surrounded him to fuel up the gems and then tap into their power.

By struggling very hard to remain conscious, Eragon twitched a limb. _I..cannot..give up…I must…fight…until the end._ With one last great effort, Eragon opened his mind to the environment, allowing his conscience to drift freely. The vegetation bolstered with life energy, but it was not available to Eragon. Not in his current state, at least. _Aren…_ By using the energy stored inside the ring, Eragon muttered the words needed for the healing spell. The blue ring glowed with frightening intensity, and in the next moment, the Rider could feel his powers returning as tissues and muscles were being stitched together once again.

With his plan embed in his mind, Eragon was about to use every resource he had at his disposal, even if this would spell his demise. But first, he needed to contact Saphira, and Eragon knew that she wouldn't be pleased with his recklessness. The moment he opened the link, the dragoness viciously assaulted him with warnings and words filled with concern, but the time for it was not now.

_Saphira, if you keep worrying about me, then I will surely perish and the whole Alagaesia will succumb in darkness. I need you to do the move we two practiced, alright?_ The dragoness reluctantly agreed, much to her displeasure.

"You are full of surprises, Eragon. I almost thought that you would actually die there," Galbatorix said chillingly, readying his two swords. After spreading his mind to funnel the power of the surrounding plants into his belt, Eragon replied with conviction, "This surprise will be the last, you have my word for it."

Even if his actions created a death zone in the surrounding environment, the gems of his belt were full, and Eragon was ready to unleash his final attack that would kill the tyrant. By tapping into the power of the belt of Beloth the Wise, Eragon could feel the power surging through him. He was tempted to use it to heal all of his wounds, but then his offense would suffer. However, a decision had to be made, and fast.

With a speed greater than his previous, Eragon lunged at the king and unleashed a series of fast thrusts with only one purpose. Galbatorix, as usual, parried them all, but that's exactly what Eragon wanted him to do. Making use of his current stance, Eragon ducked under the green sword and whirled around just in time to intercept his other weapon.

"Brisingr!" Eragon cried. The name ignited his sword in dazzling blue flames, making it a formidable weapon with exceptional capabilities. Due to the force exerted by his whirlwind, Brisingr easily cut through the metal of the steel sword, but was intercepted by Galbatorix's other sword before it caused further damage.

"Quite impressive, Eragon," the king cackled and swung upwards, then used his other hand to land a backhand in Eragon's face. The Rider whimpered in pain and slashed defensively at his opponent's legs, but to no avail. _Saphira_! He cried mentally.

Until she would arrive where she was supposed to be, Eragon kept the unsuspecting king busy by defending himself and occasionally stabbing at him. After dodging a thrust, Eragon summoned half of his strength into one single spell "Thrysta vindr!" he cried. Immediately after, a powerful force coalesced out of thin air and blasted the king, sending him flying through the broken gate, right where Saphira was laying in waiting. The sapphire dragon growled fiercely as she assumed an offensive position, ready to rip the puny human to shreds. As soon as Galbatorix's form made contact with the ground, a powerful tail swipe prepared to intercept him.

Normally, the momentum and the force of the blast would render anyone unable to move, but somehow Galbatorix evaded Saphira's tail swipe, along with all of the other attacks that followed. _I will handle it Saphira, just provide me the fire,_ Eragon told her before he rushed towards the king to allow his dragon enough time to fly away. Saphira roared viciously and clawed at Galbatorix one more time before she flapped her massive wings and gained altitude.

"So beautiful and fierce. I wonder why she hatched for a weakling like you," Galbatorix said with disgust as he rolled on the ground, easily evading the deadly claws that would otherwise rip his body apart. Eragon wasted no time in engaging him and charged, but the king was expecting him. After he sidestepped the initial charge, Galbatorix twisted around, performing moves that Eragon had become familiar with. By now, the king seemed bored of toying with him, and this peculiar feeling instilled fear into Eragon's heart. What if his plan would fail?

Do it now, Eragon! Together, we shall purge the land of this evil blight, Saphira roared before she unleashed a torrent of flame above the area where the two combatants were fighting. By acknowledging her reply, Eragon focused his power to contain the fire and create a huge fireball that would fall on top of the unsuspecting king.

The drain on his energy was substantial, and the only way to keep make it happen was Aren. Without further thinking, Eragon channeled the magic within the ring and muttered the final words that would end the incantation.

Vanish in the fiery explosion, Eragon thought as he brought down the fireball with great speed, but not after he pushed Galbatorix in its direction by using the same spell he used before. The unsuspecting opponent collided with a tree right before a sapphire orb of flame descended on top of him, exploding into a powerful blast that incinerated everything around. The circular blast of heat spiraled around the fiery core of the fireball, burning the nearby vegetation and sending the loose bolts of the gate flying.

"Argh" Eragon screamed and dropped to his knees. The toll this magic had taken was great, and most of his wounds still pestered him. His whole body pained him, but a feeling of serenity engulfed him when he gazed at the purifying blue flame that kept burning. Only the ashes remained of the once tyrant king of Alagaesia.

"Hasn't Oromis told you to always be on guard?" A harsh, deep and cold voice came from behind. "N..no..it…BHOA" Eragon's face wrinkled the moment he felt a searing pain penetrating his right side. After glancing below with hesitation, he noticed a sword protruding from his lower belly.

Galbatorix withdrew his weapon from his as fast as he drove it through the defenseless Rider. When this happened, Eragon collapsed on the ground, his breath faint and irregular. Feeling his pain, Saphira began to descend, but he was too weak to respond to her or warn her not to let herself captured.

"She's coming… rescue… Eragon. Too bad I have a saying in that." Eragon could barely make out what Galbatorix said. With his mind almost fading into nothingness, he slowly moved his head to watch Saphira with the corner of his eye. He didn't have the power to make out what happened, but one thing was certain: Saphira was getting farther and farther away from him.

Before Eragon closed his eyes, he noticed Galbatorix approaching him. After he crouched, he reached towards his ear, whispering, "There is no love, only true power. You will come to realize that later."


	6. Aftermath

**Hello readers. I must say, I was a bit disappointed by the very few reviews the last chapter received. With 115 hits, I expected more, mainly because the chapter had 6.000 words and a lot happened in it. I know I usually update faster, but this time I have been busy working on my novel, so this chapter will have to do it. Sit back and enjoy.**

The air in the small chamber was so tense that one could almost cut through it with a knife. Everyone around the table was silent; it was either the shock of fighting a being that was almost immortal or the fact that human beings, dwarves and Urgals alike were powerless against such mighty opponent.

However, the silence was not to last, for Roran Stronghammer slammed his fist against the table, breaking everyone's musings with in a jolt of surprise, "Are you saying that we should let Eragon fight Galbatorix alone, without anyone to aid him?"

Nasuada could very much understand his concern, but neither his frown, nor the power in his voice could convince her otherwise. As much as she did not like the prospect of this argument, repetition was the only thing which could keep Roran in check and not allow him to do anything stupid.

"Why is it so hard to accept the facts, Stronghammer? You heard what happens to us humans when we clench swords with Galbatorix: he obliterates us," she said through a sigh, hardly believing that she had to resort to cowardice to prevent further deaths.

Roran bowed his head in defeat, but he didn't look quite convinced. It was one of the surviving guards that dared to open his mouth and stutter, "Listen to her, S-stronghammer. You don't know what the mad king is capable of." Contrary to the desired reaction, the result was quite the opposite. After lifting his imposing stature from the table, Roran withdrew his hammer and pointed it towards the already terrified soldier.

"And Eragon knows? You forced him to fight against an opponent much stronger than him while you hide like scared animals in their den!" He bellowed, smashing the hammer against the table. With things running out of control, Nasuada prepared to interfere, but Orik swiftly grabbed Roran by his arm and said on a calm voice, "I know yer concerns, lad. Eragon is mine foster brother."

Like a crazed beast, Roran turned his menacing glare towards the short stature but muscular dwarf, but Orik's grip seemed to harden on his wrist as his arm began to shake due to the force exerted. " We are all aware of how powerful Galbatorix is, but we cannot risk distressing Eragon with our presence."

The firm approach of Orik was like a whip against Roran's anger. After glancing one last time at Nasuada, he threw his body into his chair, resting his chin against the hammer. With one problem sorted, Nasuada exhaled in relief and looked towards the unarmed guards that awaited for her to dismiss them. Their facial expressions were one of terror, and one particular one rose from the crowd.

_Is this how my people feel? _She questioned herself before she waved her hand at them to leave the room. There was nothing else they could provide her with, and the shock they suffered probably crippled their minds. As they made their way out of the house, a rough voice almost made her frame shudder.

"What we do, Lady Nightstalker?" The voice belonged to Nar Garzvhog, a tall, brutal yet wise Urgal among his kin. At his question, everyone in the room turned their gaze to her, but Nasuada held her composure as she replied, "All we can do is wait for Eragon to return in a glorious manner to us." She tried to sketch a smile to go along with the hope coated words, but the commanders did not seem to share the same optimism.

As if on cue, the dwarf known as Thorad shattered everything she tried to achieve with cold and irrational conviction, "That boy will not win the war for us! You heard what happened to Arya and them elves. They were more, and they all failed."

What happened next could only be described as rough argue, with each of the commanders joining in to the general ruckus with their own arguments and claims. Try as she might to overpower the crowd with her high pitched voiced, Nasuada could do little to calm everyone down. Fortunately, she didn't have to, because in the same moment, the door was slammed open and a jittery guard entered, silencing the annoying crowd.

"Lady Nasuada, your presence is requested immediately. It is…" the guard gazed downwards, much to everyone's astonishment. With this clear sign of a negative message, everyone rose from his seat and tried to make his way out, but Garzvhog blocked their every attempt to do so. Taking this opportunity to exit the room, Nasuada nodded in a friendly manner to the Urgal and fled the room, together with the guard.

"Quite a bunch of hot tempers in there, aye?" The guard smiled, but when Nasuada threw him an icy cold gaze, his face became dead serious before he gulped emptily.

"What you wanted to tell me, guard?" After his previous failure at cheering the leader of the Varden, the man seemed to barely gather his words as he stuttered, "E…Eragon. He…" Nasuada raised one eyebrow, but the man in front of her seemed to have suffered a panic attack.

"Tell me what happened," Nasuada said calmly, placing a hand on his shoulder. Her calm approach immediately released the man's tongue from its entangled state as he resumed on a frail tone, "In that building." His hand pointed towards one of the structures that suffered minimal damage.

"You may go," Nasuada replied shortly and ran towards the building, her heart pounding heavily like it was about to burst. The way towards the building on her left seemed to be the longest trip ever. Her temples bulged, her eyes blinked rapidly to maintain the clear image and a sickening feeling threatened to overwhelm her.

When she reached the door, Nasuada closed her eyes, murmuring some encouraging words to herself. She did not know what lay there. Her mind wanted hoped, almost begged that Eragon, although hurt, would summon her through that guard and inform her of the king's demise. Yet, her instincts told her different, tainting her good will and calmness.

With no means to resist this self torture any longer, Nasuada opened the door and entered the dark chamber, which was devoid of any source of light. She reluctantly closed the door to deny any other soldier to disturb her, even if this darkness greatly disturbed her. Unable to see even the faintest detail of where she was, Nasuada extended her arms and made an unsure first step.

"Brisingr," a voice commanded, and in the next moment, a few magical fires appeared around the room, providing enough light for the two beings to see each other. Fear immediately swept inside Nasuada's heart, as she could not recognize this sinister voice laced with power. She frantically glanced around the room, trying to determine his position, but she found it harder than expected.

"You are predictable, Nasuada. That's how I managed to get you here," the same voice came, but this time, she managed to track it. On her left, there was a man sitting on a chair, his head bowed and his finger running along the tip of the green blade that sat on his lap. With her mind almost blocked due to the sudden panic, Nasuada just couldn't guess who this presence was. Could it be one of Galbatorix's agents?

Noticing her lack of response, the man slowly sheathed his sword and raised to his feet, his eyes fixing into hers. Usually a powerful character, Nasuada wouldn't flinch before a simple man, but this one had something very different to him. The voice, his looks, his penetrating green eyes, they seemed to numb her limbs and almost drive her to the edge of fainting.

"Surely there are clues to my identity," the man smiled, scratching his beard impatiently as he waited for a response. Suddenly, a chilling realization struck Nasuada. She knew who this man was, and this knowledge returned the blood to her almost shaking limbs. Her mind, however, hadn't fully recovered from the shock, so all she could do was stutter, "Ga..gal…"

"Galbatorix," the man cut in sharply. Nasuada's jaw dropped in an instant, and she couldn't help but to bring a hand to her exposed awestruck expression.

"Pretend what you will, but in the dark corners of your mind, you knew that such moment will eventually come." Still shocked from the sudden revelation, Nasuada closed her eyes, gathering her faltering wits and courage. She was the leader of the Varden! How could she even expect her people to fight when she alone couldn't stand up for her ideals? With her mind recuperating slightly from the numbed state, Nasuada said on a frail tone, " If you were victorious, then Eragon… where is he?"

Galbatorix frowned slightly at her question, as if he expected a different answer from her, "You will see for yourself, but now is not the time." Nasuada clenched her fists together, but refrained for doing anything stupid. If Galbatorix truly defeated Eragon, then she was helpless as a lamb in front of him.

"I am surprised by how selfish you are, Nasuada" Galbatorix said while he looked around the room as if to give Nasuada a break from his piercing gaze. Before she could even reply, the King cut in abruptly, "You have been feeding that boy false promises of victory, when he was neither strong nor capable to live up to your expectations." His cold voice could freeze this room and turn it into a chilling abyss, but Nasuada didn't falter.

"Is it selfish to fight for a noble cause? You betrayed everyone, including your own kin!" she spat angrily.

Galbatorix seemed amused by her little attempt to fight back. "You call me betrayer, when in fact, it is I who was betrayed." Without giving him a chance to unleash his mind numbing words, Nasuada added pressure to her resolve, "You speak nonsense. The Riders were wise to deny you of another dragon, you ruthless abomination!"

The words seemed to have touched a sensitive topic, for Galbatorix's previous smile vanished, only to be replaced by a dead serious face, "You dare to question my rationality, when you know close to nothing about the facts you vehemently defend." Without allowing her to reply, Galbatorix continued, "Your biased opinion about Oromis is to be commended, really."

Nasuada felt like a helpless puppet in front of Galbatorix. Never before has she stood against such defying presence. It was like her power was crumbled to nothingness. It was like…she wasn't good enough to be the leader of the Varden. Her eyes locked on one of the flickering flames, searching for the flame that would ignite her courage, but it just seemed to avoid her.

"What would you say if I tell you that it is because of Oromis that Eragon lost today?" His words snapped Nasuada out of her trance like state with thorny chains. If this was the way of Galbatorix to toy with his subjects, then she wouldn't offer him the satisfaction to dwarf her like a pitiful injured beast.

"You speak nonsense!"

"I speak the truth, Nasuada, but you are too stubborn and stuck up to understand it. This is why I will cut to what I came here for," Galbatorix concluded and headed towards his chair, beckoning her to approach him. Feeling powerless against his request, Nasuada merely obeyed.

"Contrary to what you believe, I don't like this war. Because of your pitiful rebellion, innocent men die to uphold your false ideals." Nasuada tried to speak, but words seemed to refuse to come out. Panicking because of this unnatural occurrence, she brought a hand to her neck and tried to scream, but no sounds came out.

Galbatorix chuckled at the sight in front of him, his still hand signaling Nasuada to stop and wait for his explanation. Without even questioning his reasons, Nasauda stop and gave him a look of terror and confusion.

"It's only a spell meant to keep your pitiful claims away for the time being. Didn't Eragon tell you that only fools use words to cast spells?" Nasuada shook her head and brought her arms along her body like two lifeless twigs. Her helplessness summoned another chuckle from Galbatorix, but this time, she frowned with all her hatred directed towards him.

"You aren't tough, Nasuada, even if you try to appear so. If it wasn't for Eragon, people wouldn't care about you." Such words shocked Nasuada. Without constraining her emotions, she lunged towards Galbatorix, but a strong force froze her in place.

"You hold powerful allies next to you; because they surround you, people cannot notice how weak you really are. Power blinds them, and they are denied of the truth," Galbatorix said with a voice full of satisfaction, proud of himself that he managed to subjugate the leader of the rebellion. Without even the possibility to move, all what Nasuada could do was wait and listen to whatever the king wanted to tell her.

Galbatorix clenched his hands together, adopting a more serious expression that could only mean one thing: He was done with games. "You are like a nail poking at my ribs. As tiny and insignificant as it is, the discomfort it produces can not go unnoticed." Even if she tried to understand his words, Nasuada just couldn't make it. The force exerted on her limbs and body was not lessening, and for a second, she wished she never listened to that guard in the first place.

"I warn you Nasuada. Stop your pitiful campaign, or I will be forced to unleash my full powers upon the Varden." As soon as he ended the words, the invisible grip on her body ended and a wild cough announced the ending of the spell Galbatorix used to mute her.

"You…monster!" She spat through a cough, but Galbatorix seemed not to be interested in her anymore. After picking the robe that rested on the seat he was standing on, he covered himself with it and shrouded with head with the hood. Nasuada could only watch as he pushed the door open and vanished into the city.

* * *

"She…awake… Bl..dgar… Arya….Arya" Was all what she could hear after the darkness faded from her eyes, revealing a hazy and almost impossible to comprehend image. A faint moan escaped her as she brought a hand to her throbbing head which was not faring any better since…

The realization of what happened and why she was in this state was like a bucket full of ice emptied on top of her. No matter her state, she had to know the outcome of the fight, and most important, how she ended up here.

After blinking several times to get adjusted to the light that perched through a single window, the first thing she saw were the concerned looks of Erian and Blodhgarm, who stared at her with compassion and happiness.

" Praise Blodhgarm for his fast intervention," Erian said as he bowed and withdrew from the cot to allow enough room for Arya to get up, should she wish to do so. Arya seemed not to care about him, as more important questions weighed on her mind.

"What happened?" She asked quickly in a low voice while pushing herself to the side of the cot, as if she prepared to storm out of the room as soon as possible. Blodhgarm bowed his head in an apologetic way, " After Galbatorix killed our brethren, I used my remaining strength to pick you up and flee to a safe location."

Arya fixed her lustrous green eyes on him, looking at him intently. Realizing what she wanted, Blodhgarm continued, "That's how you got here." His confession didn't please Arya. She wanted to hear something else, but couldn't quite put her finger on it. She felt the urge to know the missing information prodding at her mind, yet she just couldn't understand what it was. Erian was the one to make her jump on her feet and sheath her sword with haste.

"I did inform Shadeslayer, but the outcome of the battle is still a mystery to us." In her agitation, Arya forgot about her weakened body, sore head, and everything else that could stop her from finding out what happened to Eragon. _What if…_ she thought, but quickly dismissed the negative possibilities. If something bad happened to Eragon, it was because she was too weak to aid him fight the dark king.

"Erian, Blodhgarm, follow me," she commanded, and the two elves followed her out of the room without even questioning her reasons. The three elves quickly climbed down the stairs, their leather boots barely making a noise on the wooden boards.

"Arya, I don't know where Eragon is," Erian said, his eyes meeting with Arya's, but she said nothing before they exited the building. The dying sun of dusk greeted the three elves with its orange and warm rays. Unlike before, the streets seemed so serene, like the storm that engulfed the land had all but dissipated.

"Let's search for someone who does," Arya completed and ran down the street, mentally contacting Nasuada. Her mind encountered rock hard barriers around her mind, as if she was protecting from some unwanted presence.

_What is it Arya? I'm relieved to find out you are alright, but what do you want? _Arya was slightly surprised by how nervous Nasuada was. Still, she put the blame on some political matter and investigated it no further.

_Where is Eragon? _She asked, sidestepping right to reach a crowded street with people and guards blocking her path. No fast answer came, and for a second Arya felt a tinge of powerlessness creeping inside her. However, Nasuada quickly gathered herself and replied swiftly before she ended the connection, _somewhere_ _around the gate of Feinster._

When the elves approached the desired location, Arya tried to contact Eragon, but he was apparently oblivious to the rest of the world. She suddenly stopped, an invisible wall of worry blocking her right on that spot. What if the worst happened? What if… Arya violently shook her head, dismissing every ounce of doubt from her head. Blodhgarm and Erian looked at her in a most curious way, but a piercing gaze was enough to stop them from asking anything before they continued.

Even Saphira had closed her mind from everyone, adding even more pressure to her search. If motivation alone was enough to find Eragon, then why wasn't she succeeding? Before falling prey to her negative thoughts, Arya headed towards the destroyed gate, where she suddenly stopped. Not far from her location, there was a circular patch of incinerated ground and trees that was enough to summon anyone's attention.

Arya ran past the gate and headed towards that area when a faint choke summoned her attention. After turning her head left towards the source of the noise, she almost froze on that spot when her eyes met the silhouette of brown haired boy and a sapphire sword resting next to him.

"Eragon!" She shouted with surprise and fear. In the next moment, she kneeled next to his bloodied body, her eyes scanning his wounds with great fear. "Erian, Blodhgarm, use whatever it takes to heal him," she cried while her mind carefully scouted for any trace of magical energy that might help her tend his wounds.

Fortunately, there was still a magical supply in his ring, and Arya was grateful for it. "Kill whatever plant and animal if it helps us save his life," she ordered and the two elves nodded with slight reluctance. If she was not in need of their help, Arya would most likely snap at them for such lack of respect for one who almost sacrificed his life to save them.

In unison, the three elves chanted the healing spell, and in the following moment, a surge of healing energy enveloped the fallen Rider. The death of the surrounding wildlife breathed life energy into Eragon, who began to cough wildly as his most prominent wounds stitched together.

Without enough energy to heal his remaining wounds, the elves stopped, all of them panting heavily. Blodhgarm and Erian were the most affected, because they were forced to put a lot more energy for the healing ritual.

Eragon was still in a bad state due to the blood loss, but with his most prominent wounds healed, Arya had no doubts that he would survive. An immense relief washed over her when Eragon's irregular breath stabilized, and for the first time since this war started, she felt like she just accomplished a miracle by saving a friend.

**Reviews can really motivate an author, so if you feel like giving me a little reward for one chapter you liked, please review it. **


	7. Scars of War

**I was so impressed by the numbers of reviews I had received. They really made my day, and thanks to you guys, I finished another chapter, even if I had to stay until 3 AM to finish it. It is the least I can do to reward such an enthusiastic crowd. Without further ado, here's chapter 7. It's more of a filler, but the action returns in the next chapter. Or at least partially.**

"What if he doesn't…"

"He is going to," Arya cut in abruptly, ending Erian's stutter. Her two exhausted companions had an alien look on their faces, mainly attributed to the toll the magic had taken on them. Arya felt drained herself, and she could only imagine just how weakened they were, after healing both Eragon and her earlier this day.

Still, staying here was not an option, not when the crowds of people would flee the safety of their hideouts and inspect the aftermath of this battle. If the Varden were to find Eragon laying here in his state, panic and fright would sweep upon the rebellion forces, devouring their courage and will to fight from the inside.

After a short glance at each of the two elves, Arya finally opened her mouth as she got up, "We cannot let Eragon rest here." Blodhgarm nodded, while Erian stared blankly at her, like he didn't even grasp the meaning behind her words. Attributing his lack of focus to exhaustion, Arya repeated her message with more details, "If people find out what happened here, panic and cowardice will taint their hearts. You must hide him in the deeper parts of the forest."

The two elves nodded in unison and picked the sleeping rider by the arms and legs, and prepared to move where Arya indicated when Erian stopped, "What about you? Aren't you coming with us?"

Arya shook her head, "I need time alone to meditate and clear my mind." She felt slightly relieved when Erian did not ask her for another explanation again. As soon as they began moving towards the west, more remote side of the forest, Arya sighed and looked forward.

The serenity of the forest at dusk lulled her like a beacon of unknown yet fascinating power. As she silently walked through the trees, her mind wondered like a free bird, soaring through her recent thoughts with difficulty and reluctance. As much as she tried to refrain from tormenting herself with dark thoughts, it was an inevitable obstacle that she had to pass in order to bring peace to her heart.

She felt lost and confused, more than ever before. The mind barriers, the almost impenetrable walls that only strengthened with each painful moment she had experienced began to shake under the light of the recent events. What could she do, if her being couldn't resist this relentless assault?

With the pressure transferring out of its mental confines, Arya increased her speed and maintained an icy cold look as she jumped over a boulder that blocked her path. Her facial expression could trick anyone with its impassiveness, but she couldn't trick herself this time. No previous methods of calming the inner volcano work, and ignorance was seldom an excuse to put her worries aside. This time, she had to face them, or she risked going mad with pain and confusion.

What tormented her the most was the brutal defeat when she fought Galbatorix. The image of her dead companions still lingered within her mind like a curse that could not be dispelled, and the feeling of powerless she felt when the King ruthlessly killed them felt like a boulder pressing onto her mind.

The blame was hers to bear, for she wasn't strong enough to protect them. The King blew her away like a powerless and innocent leaf that hoped to conquer a hurricane, and that was the price of failure. What made it worse was the fact that she was the one to instruct her companions to use the spirit wolf tactic instead of fighting defensively and wait for reinforcements. Together with Eragon they could have made it, but it was hatred and anger for the man she spited the most that interfered with her judgment when she needed a clear mind and cold calculations.

_No… he was… too strong, _she tried to reassure herself, but to no avail. It was obvious that it was her doing, and this was her penance. A crystalline tear rolled down her cheek, but it was immediately blown away from her face when she burst into a run at top speed.

Nasuada suddenly appeared in her mind, repeating the words that she refused to accept,_ these kind of sentimentalisms are what is dragging us down._ What seemed like an insult before was now transformed into a cold truth, one which Arya still couldn't accept, despite the facts lay before her.

All she wanted was scream, so all the forest could hear her pain and help her remedy it. But trees and plants could not comfort, not provide a most needed advice to her. She was all alone, without anyone to guide her. When she stopped into a glen, Arya dropped on a fallen log, wiping the tears from her face.

_It's feelings that destroyed everything_, she thought with revulsion, a sickening feeling threatening to take over her. Still weakened after the fight and the healing spell she used to save Eragon, the least she needed was to berate herself, yet this was not in her power. If the truth wouldn't reveal to herself, then more of her kin, more friends of hers would die because of the mistakes she made.

"I must…I have to break…any connections…" she murmured with a trembling voice, but the rest refused to come out. She was aware of her mistake, she wanted to fix it so much, but why couldn't she? If emotions were to blame for everything, why was it so hard for her to make this decision?

Perhaps this was a sickening game of her mind, meant to torture her even more. Her fists clenched and were brought down upon the log, releasing a faint thud. The pain coming from her hands reflected the harsh reality, and Arya couldn't care less about it.

While she sat there like a statue, a perched owl that she didn't notice before began its sinister chant. It stood there for a moment before it unfurled its wings, flying into the dark blue sky. Her head began throbbing again, and her body threatened to collapse right on that spot. She was tired; too tired to think properly anymore.

When she jumped off the log and lay her body on the ground layered with grass and leaves, Saphira entered her mind while she blankly stared at the sky. Where could she be? As much as Arya tried to find the answer to this question, there was no easy answer. Perhaps she was now with Eragon, comforting him after the recent defeat.

Involuntarily, her mind drifted towards him. The previous achievement she felt when she encountered him was now reduced to nothingness. She healed Eragon, but there was no one who could hear her in return. Or was it so?

Arya immediately erased the senseless thought which was sprinkled with false hopes. She could not fathom the reason behind her irrational act. How could she even appear before Eragon, when it was because of her that he lost the battle?

_No, Eragon is not like that, _Arya tried to comfort herself. A cold breeze that swept across the forest seemed to carry away this thought, like it was a distant memory. Eragon was her friend, but she failed on him.

Unexpectedly, Arya felt a familiar conscience. She knew who it belonged to, and because of it, she immediately jumped to her feet, _Saphira, where are you?_ When the dragoness opened her mind, Arya was almost crippled by the wave of mixed emotions that hit her. As much as she tried to fight against it, Arya couldn't win.

_Saphira, Eragon is safe, I healed him, _she barely confessed through her mind. After a short moment of waiting, Saphira's raging emotions died down, returning her to the dragon Arya was used to. Still, she was surprised that Saphira could descend into such primitive state because of emotions.

_Where is he? _A bellowing roar was heard from the distance. Arya's eardrums vibrated heavily, and she wasn't even that close to her. Truth is, even she did not know where exactly Eragon was, but telling that to Saphira was like pouring oil onto a fire.

_He is safe, I took care of it._ The first thing she felt after saying that was a big wave of relief coming from the tense dragoness. Curious as to what had driven Saphira to that point, Arya asked, _Saphira, what happened?_ She obtained no answer, but shortly after, the faint sound of flapping wings reached her ears.

The blue dragoness majestically descended with a loud thud, her powerful muscles trembling from the impact. As soon as she was on the ground, Arya walked next to her and patted her neck to calm her down. She could feel how tired and troubled Saphira was, but dared not to ask too many questions.

_The Egg Breaker! Because of him, I couldn't care for my little one! _Saphira hissed with anger. The soothing touch of Arya whose hand continued to run across her smooth scales diminished the fury of the inner beast within her even more. Arya knew how temperamental Saphira could get at times, but even she was surprised by just how angry the dragoness was when she encountered her.

_You will care for him shortly, Saphira, I…_ Arya suddenly trailed off, remembering the reason she came here in the first place. If Eragon was confused, angry and mad at himself like Saphira, then who would help a disabled man up and put him back on the right track? Saphira was the partner -of his- mind- and -soul, but she was also his friend, and friends were supposed to be there for each other, just like Eragon was for her in the past.

_I wasn't there for him,_ she thought to herself. A shook of Saphira's powerful neck stopped Arya from her musings, who backed away after her role had been fulfilled. After exhaling loudly, Saphira sat on her belly and fixed one sapphire eye on Arya, watching her intently, as if there was something else she wanted from her.

For the first time in the past few days, Arya's lips contorted into half a smile as she headed towards the dragoness. Slowly, she crouched and rested her back against Saphira's neck while placing a hand on the scaly surface.

_The traitorous kind forced me to swear in the language of power that I wouldn't get close to Eragon until the light ends. It was the only choice I could make, _Saphira said, sadness embed in her once joyful thought alone of such cruel doing made Arya cringe when the picture of Galbatorix appeared in her mind. He was a cunning wicked man, and the reason for his attack on Feinster was still unknown to her. Still, dwelling on that particular thought would do no good, at least not for the time being.

_You did the right thing Saphira. Thanks to you, Eragon is still among us, _Arya added soothingly.

Saphira growled in protest, _your intervention is what saved him, and I will make sure he understands that right after I am done with him._ With uncertainty, Arya gazed down at the grass below that swung majestically in the evening breeze. She appeared calm to Saphira, but in reality, she was almost as troubled as she was.

Sensing her weakness, Saphira approached her, _what's done is done._ _We cannot let the past consume us with its vile flames. _Arya nodded with half reluctance as her gaze drifted back to Saphira.

_I don't want to talk about it, _she confessed, pushing herself from Saphira. The dragoness growled in surprise at her actions, but tried not to stop her. After Eragon, Arya was the only one who understood Saphira, and even if she wanted to ask her more, she felt like it was plain impossible.

_You should go check on Eragon, _she said, looking upwards. The sun had long left the sky, and darkness almost claimed the land. After getting onto her feet, Saphira looked at Arya one last time before she unfurled her wings and let out a mighty roar that shook the forest before launching into the air.

_Who will look after you, pointed ears?_ This question took Arya by surprise, but she maintained her apparent indifference pretty well.

_Unlike him, I can look after myself, _she teased. In reality, it was not so, but the least Arya wanted was to burden Saphira with her own problems after her Rider was almost killed. Alone, with only the forest to keep her company, Arya lay down and closed her eyes, immersing herself with the sounds of nature at night. Such peaceful it was, but this serenity would never be hers during these troubled times.

* * *

Eragon groggily opened his eyes and groaned slightly as he tried to picture where he was. Through his blurry vision, there was little he could understand, and his sore body was not making it any better. Everything was dark around him, and warm. Using his arms as means of understanding his surroundings, Eragon groped around until his palm met a warm and scaly surface. Suddenly, the creature brought the tail to her side, blocking Eragon next to her side.

_Try to leave and I might reconsider the thought of licking you from head to toe later, _a calm yet slightly threatening voice entered his mind, but Eragon shrugged it off in an instant. He did not even know where he was, and Saphira wanted to play games with him? With an angry tone, Eragon expressed his disagreement.

_Saphira, I cannot leave because I don't even know where I am!_ The dragoness craned her long neck and reached with her snout towards his torso, nuzzling him with love. Unable to resist such display of affection, Eragon placed his arms on the sides of her snout and leaned his head against her nostrils that expelled warm air with each exhale.

_Y-you did the right thing to flee. I couldn't bear the thought of losing you, Saphira, _Eragon cooed, scratching her on the snout with his fingers. Being one of the things that irritated her because of the ticklish sensation, Saphira withdrew her snout and shook her heard. For the first time after the battle, Eragon could gaze into her sapphire eyes that were as soothing as the ocean for him. However, this time, her eyes were anything but full of serenity. Out of a sudden, the tail that supported his weight withdrew and Eragon fell on the ground face first.

_That's what you get for saying such stupid things, little one. If you think that I am just a flying lizard that can only transport and not protect you, then I will make sure to prove you wrong, _Saphira growled menacingly. After he got up, Eragon brought his arms in a defensive position to protect himself against an eventual attack, but the wounds prevented him to do so. Whimpering slightly, he clenched his teeth and searched for Saphira's side to lean his body against her.

_Saphira, I love you too much to form such a wrong image about you. It's just that…_ Eragon trailed off as his dizziness started to subside and the memories of the past events returned to him. The fight with Galbatorix was still vivid in his mind, like it just happened moments ago. The skill his opponent displayed was remarkable, and Eragon never thought that the King could be so strong.

_Eragon, we cannot alter the past. Let it rest, for it's the present that matters,_ Saphira growled softly, concern lacing her voice But was it so? Eragon smiled with half a mouth at Saphira and then gazed downwards, lost in his thoughts. As he kept reliving the fight, a feeling of powerlessness started to grow in size, along with an anger he could not control.

_I can not. Because of my weakness, the Varden could have lost the war. I know not why Galbatorix came here, but I couldn't stop him. _Saphira said nothing, but Eragon could feel her disapproval through their link. Still, not even the partner of his mind and soul could stop him from berating himself. He had to do this in order to understand what had gone so wrong.

_Is this what Brom, Oromis and Glaedr trained me for? I failed to avenge them…I failed everybody who relied on me. Their hopes have been for naught. _Just as his anger increased, so did Saphira's. Even if he cherished the moments spent with her, this time, in one of the dark corners of his mind, Eragon wished that he was alone. Why couldn't Saphira understand him?

_Stop this nonsense, or I will have to grind some rightfulness in you,_ the dragoness roared and brought her tail to her side, constricting Eragon as she added pressure. Feeling the air being drawn out of his chest, Eragon coughed loud enough to let Saphira notice that she was not helping it.

Instead of reproaching her anything, Eragon continued to dwell on the same thoughts as before. One particular part of the encounter infuriated him good enough so that his fists clenched involuntarily while blood rushed to his bulging temples. Galbatorix insulted him, he reduced him to nothingness with just words, but that was not all. How was he daring to insult Oromis, even after he died?

Maintaining his composure well enough as to not trigger another reaction from Saphira, Eragon asked, _What did Galbatorix mean when he said that our master has taken a secret with him?_

Saphira snorted a puff of black smoke, _he was playing with your mind. Do not take to heart any of his poisonous words._ Sulky as he was, Eragon didn't even look at the dragoness. She wasn't helping him. If anything, she proved to be more of an obstacle in his search for the truth. With anger clouding his judgment, Eragon attempted to do one very irrational try.

_You are not helping me, Saphira. If we are one, then why do we think as two? _Eragon said on the calmest voice he could muster and tried to get up, but the resistance he met from the dragoness was not something he could fight.

_I understand how you feel, but do not forsake the only one who loves you because of a mere defeat, _Saphira growled menacingly before she approached her mouth to Eragon's face, opening her maw into a threatening snarl. Eragon did not even flinch from his tail prison.

_You do not understand. I was weak. I am still weak. How can I win this war if I cannot get stronger?_ Eragon screamed in her mind, releasing the volcano of raging emotions that had been building up inside him. His eyes were wide with anger and his breath accelerated.

Unexpectedly, Saphira removed her tail, allowing Eragon to move as he wished. _By forgetting the bonds you share with the others, you will not get stronger, _Saphira said as she moved away from him. Eragon stared at her blankly, and did nothing to prevent what was obvious. Without even looking at him, Saphira roared and launched herself into the air, flapping her wings as fast as she could.

_I can't expect her to understand me, when she wasn't there to fight,_ Eragon thought with bitterness and began moving towards Feinster with slow steps.

**Oh my, Eragon is really suffering from the previous defeat. Arya is not faring well either, but at least she did not just chase off Saphira with her recklessness! I will try to finish the next chapter the day after tomorrow.**

**I kind of need your help with Arya. Her character is the one I am having troubles with, and I want you to rate her based on how she behaves. While you are at it, can you give a rating to the story until now?**

**What I am looking for are opinions about plot( rate it!), how are the battle scenes,( rate this too!) and character development. You can do like this. Plot-8, Battles-9, characters-3. It's just an example, but you get the hang of it. Hope to hear from you all through reviews.**


	8. Further mysteries

**I apologize for taking longer with this update. It has been kind of hard to write a certain part, and I confess that it did not turn out as well as I expected. Still, it does not hold a huge importance, so its status remains to the one of a detail. **

**Also, I would like to take a moment and point out something that itched me for a while. I know that most of you are wandering: Why is Galbatorix acting this way? What's with Oromis and his secret? What the heck is going on here? I sincerely don't blame you, but at the same time, I feel like I should let you know something important: The story is now 8 chapters long. Yes, it is still in the beginning phase, so you cannot really expect clues or answers to every question. They will all be answered, I promise, so bear with me in this one.  
**

**Enjoy the read, and be sure to leave a review at the end of the chapter. More reviews= happier author=more motivation to write. **

Not even the stillness of the night, with its soothing sounds of crickets melodically competing into a symphony of pleasant buzzing, could diminish the inner anger that slowly consumed Eragon. He was completely blinded by it, like a seer which lost his capabilities to predict what would happen. However, it was not only plain anger that had driven Eragon close to the point of breaking; it was also a fear that he could not comprehend, and envy… the most tainted of feelings.

_Saphira was right about one thing. The present matters now, and I can only learn from my past mistakes, _Eragon thought while he sidestepped to avoid a loose boulder. In the distance, he could distinguish the shape of Feinster's stone walls, but he felt slightly reluctant to go into the city. The defeat still weighed hard on his mind, and he was not yet prepared to face the consequences for his failures.

With a violent shook of his head, Eragon attempted to drive this irrational fear out of his mind. Did he now fear his own people? If anything, they should be grateful for his sacrifice, when it could have been worse. Still, this thought alone failed to please him. He needed a more physical form to release his anger, not just thoughts.

Suddenly, Eragon stopped in his tracks. _Galbatorix wasn't just aided by the eldunari. His skill with the sword was impressive,_ he thought with envy, biting his lip hard enough to draw blood. _If I cannot match rigors of such swordsmanship, then I deserve to lose!_

With a lightning fast move, Eragon turned around and unsheathed his sword, yelling the true name of his blade right before it made contact with the boulder. The magical sword cut through the tough surface with ease, releasing a distinctive metallic screech as it slid across the boulder.

After this peculiar feat of strength, Eragon evaluated the damage he had done to his immobile, lifeless opponent. While it was not an even cut, the magical flames of Brisingr darkened everything in their path, charring even a resilient surface. Taking a deep breath, Eragon lifted his head. Before his eyes, trees of various sizes towered defiantly towards the sky, mocking him with their tall and solid structures.

Such image acted like a real spur to Eragon, who cared about nothing if it couldn't help him become stronger. Gritting his teeth, he lunged towards a tree and leaned to one side to gather enough momentum for the upcoming impact. With the tip of his sword almost touching the ground, Eragon brought Brisingr up in an oblique strike, using all the strength he could muster.

The wooden trunk of the tree posed no resistance to his enchanted blade that slit through it like it was human flesh. One by one, each of the trees in the area surrounding Eragon bended down before his might. No matter their kind, age and thickness, the Rider danced skillfully through the forest, evading the falling victims with ease.

Only when fatigue claimed his body had Eragon's rampage subsided. Panting heavily, he extinguished the eternal flames of his sword and sheathed it quickly before he dropped on his back, near one of the fallen trees. Drops of sweat slithered across his smooth brow, sliding across the red hot surface before they fell into the grass.

His impassive figure denoted no sadness, or remorse, at such loss of life. Perhaps, after so much death, Eragon himself grew accustomed to it. Still, the rational and caring part of him refused to surrender to this nonsense, yet finding the right way to conquer this rage was not an easy task.

_I failed everybody, but I will not do so again, _Eragon thought with conviction while one hand wiped away the beads of sweat from his brow. The cool air of the night refreshed him, and because of the momentary fatigue, his breath evened and the anger slowly subsided, reaching a manageable level.

Only now could he finally understand a part of his mistakes, along with the repercussions for his reckless action. He felt bad about what he said to Saphira, but in a way, his ego refused to back down. After all, he wasn't wrong to begin with. It was her that blatantly refused to accept the present and live among hopes and dreams that would never happen were it not for his decision to change it.

_Unless I get stronger, I cannot really protect Saphira. I cannot protect anybody, not even myself,_ he mused. With his training complete, Eragon resentfully accepted the fact that most of the mysteries of the Riders were revealed to him. Yet, despite the truth this mentality offered, Eragon wished it was more. Maybe there was a secret Oromis hasn't told him, maybe…

_That old fool seems to have taken his last secrets to his grave, rather than sharing them with the Varden's last hope_. The words of Galbatorix suddenly returned to his mind, like an ill-omened answer to his desperate demand. Even if he totally rejected what Galbatorix said at first, his words now seemed mysterious and coated with an eerie power. What if, despite all the lies he said, there was a flicker of truth in his words?

As if struck by a revelation, Eragon got onto his feet brushed the dirt off his torn clothes before he headed towards Feinster. _Galbatorix might be vile as a shade and cunning like a snake, but if there is something, anything that might help me win this war, I will not hesitate to use it for a greater good._

The city of Feinster was unusually dark for this time, when the night was still young. This natural camouflage would help Eragon blend better among the buildings, keeping him away from unwanted eyes.

With silent moves, Eragon sneaked past the demolished gate and made his way towards his quarters, where Glaedr's eldunari was. If what Galbatorix said proved to be true, then this advantage might turn the tides of war in his favor. Still, there was no telling if the mourning dragon would even feel prepared to talk about such intimate subject, and this thought alone stabbed at Eragon's mind like a poison coated dagger.

With each step, the churn of thoughts taking place in his mind increased in intensity. Various thoughts roamed loose, some of which Eragon felt ashamed to even think of them. The worst was probably doubt, the incertitude that Glaedr might know more, but would not willingly share it with him.

_What am I even thinking? _Eragon berated him mentally, barely restraining from hitting himself for allowing Galbatorix to poison his mind in such twisted way. His master could not possibly work against him by guarding an ancient secret; it was all Galbatorix's doing. With this reassuring thought lingering in his mind, Eragon sighed and turned right, entering a lonely street illuminated by a few dying torches hang near the door, their flickering flames lazily swaying into the light breeze.

Gulping emptily, Eragon tightened his fists with anticipation and uncertainty before he placed one foot on the street where his dwelling was located. Situated in the lower town, the simple construction failed to summon anyone's attention due to its lack of uniqueness and creativity. However, for Eragon, the house situated somewhere at the end of the road stood out like a beacon of light in the middle of a dark and desolated desert.

When he was in front of the door, Eragon pushed it open slowly, the old wood greeting him with an unpleasant creak. As if struck by lightning, he entered the house and shut the door with haste, pulling the wooden board that secured it as soon as he did that. The least he wanted was to talk to an unexpected visitor right after his defeat.

Gathering his wits, Eragon trudged into his room, wrestling with the oncoming tide of thoughts. What spurred him into embracing his irrational side and disturb his master at such time was the sour defeat he suffered earlier, nothing more.

The room he was sleeping in was almost barren, save for a writing desk, a cot and an antique armoire that safeguarded his battle armor, along with one or two tunics and pairs of leggings. The only source of light in this windowless room was an eternal blue flame that Eragon conjured as a reminder of Saphira's sparkling blue scales.

_I cannot allow morality to prevent me from doing what is right, Eragon_ reassured himself, closing his eyes to meditate one last time on his actions. Glaedr might be furious for being roused so early after his Rider died and might not reciprocate Eragon's desire to find an answer to his question.

With his mind picturing Saphira, Arya, Nasuada and everyone else he failed to protect, a fire ignited in Eragon's eyes that now burned with determination. Waiting no longer, he hunkered down and withdrew a wooden chest from under his bed, which he lifted slowly before placing it onto his cot. His almost unsteady hands opened the chest slowly, revealing an almost round shaped, golden object that one could almost mistake for a gemstone. Its faint and mysterious glow rippled from within its center, erasing any doubt that this object stored a once powerful, living being.

_Master, I pledge to you that my disturbance is instigated by a defeat the Varden suffered today, _Eragon said with a firm voice, his eyes locked into the object before his eyes. The golden light within flickered, but nothing else happened. A bit reluctant due to his first failed attempt to gain the attention of the ancient dragon, Eragon pressed on.

_Without your guidance, I fear that everything we've fought for has been for naught. _Again, no answer came from the eldunari, and Eragon wandered whether to pursue this topic further or avoid incurring his master's wrath. If he would back down in this moment, then Galbatorix truly won the war. Motivated by the strong desire to elucidate this mystery, Eragon mentally consented that such pitiful attempts would never summon his master's attention.

_Galbatorix himself attacked Feinster. His power was far beyond my imagining, and without your help, Alagaesia will forever be shrouded in darkness._ The golden light increased in intensity and a deep voice laced with power and sadness entered Eragon's mind.

_The life of mortals cannot concern me anymore. I've taught you everything there was to know._ Eragon was almost shocked by how much sadness was present in Glaedr's still coherent as ever voice. It was the voice of a dragon that had lost everything that was worth living for, and the only escape lied in death. Still, this was not the answer Eragon was looking for, and even if it pained him to do such cruel thing, it was a dire necessity, both for him and the Varden.

Retaining his calmness, Eragon asked, _Master, Oromis would not have wanted this. He fought for a righteous ideal, and abandoning his ideology in such critical moment means turning our backs on everything he done for us._

The eldunari crackled with energy, a booming voice following, _that he did, and as his sole apprentice, he passed on this legacy to you._ By this time, a surge of sadness and grief tainted Glaedr, and Eragon had the impression that he wanted nothing more than to end the pitiful dialogue and retreat to the confines of the solitude he was damned with. Biting his lip in reluctance, he continued.

_I am weak… too weak to defeat Galbatorix. Everyone counted on me, and I failed to fulfill my role as a Rider._ Eragon dug his chin into his chest, staring at the floor with a look of defeat on his face for a moment before his eyes fixed on the eldunari that stopped flickering, as if his master did not care at all about the fate of the free races of Alagaesia. Maybe it was his mistake from pressuring a sorrowful and now ephemeral being for answers, but he did not ask for it in the first place. Everything seemed to happen against his will, and he was just a pawn, a leaf swayed by the wind wherever its destiny would take it.

With all the troubles of the past days returning to haunt him, in one form or another, Eragon summoned the little and faltering courage that still resided in him and dared disturb his master once again, _What is there to do, master? I would do anything, bear any burden, if this will only help me defeat Galbatorix._

The same golden light that previously flickered now churned like a golden fireball trapped inside a crystal, _There are powers beyond your imagining, Eragon. Do not toy with what you cannot fathom, for it will consume your very being._

Eragon's eyes widened, the keen brown eyes following the pleasant patterns of golden light that rippled through the eldunari. Such unusual display felt conspicuous to him, yet he couldn't quite grasp his master's words, even if he felt that his persistence was finally being rewarded. Maybe Galbatorix was right, and there was something Oromis had hidden from him, but Glaedr's riddles were not making it any better, especially when he was already grumpy and tired.

_Your advice is foreign to me, master, but if there is anything you haven't told me, I want you to know that I am prepared to face anything._ An eerie moment of silence followed, torturing Eragon even more than necessary. A feeling of remorse began poking at the back of his mind, a reprimand that could not just pass by. During his training with Oromis and Glaedr, Eragon never doubted their trust. Yet now, because of what Galbatorix said, his trust was being shaken by doubts. The answer to his question came in a most unexpected form.

_You let incertitude, anger and sate for revenge cloud your judgment, Eragon. Your power will forever be insufficient if you cannot see past appearances._ The golden light that almost enveloped the eldunari previously began to fade slowly, returning to its almost impassive state. Feeling that his master wanted to talk to him no longer, Eragon grabbed his head in his hands, thinking deeply about anything Glaedr said. For some reason, he just couldn't get over what Galbatorix told him and what he found out right now. Risking everything for a rightful principle, Eragon extended his mind to the eldunari once again.

_Master, there is one last thing. Galbatorix said that Oromis…_ the powerful voice of Glaedr overwhelmed Eragon's mind, making him grit his teeth.

_What have we both taught you? Abolish the poison of his words from your mind, or suffer the same fate of a Forsworn._ Shortly after, the great mind of Glaedr shut itself from his, secluding into the eldunari once again. Almost shocked due to the sudden outburst, Eragon blankly stared at the chest in front of him, his mind trying to recuperate from what just happened.

What he expected to be the secret that might save the Varden proved to be a pathway to even more entangled riddles and cords of thorns scattered throughout the winding way to the knowledge he was searching for. One of his numb hands casually drifted to the back of his head, scratching the shaggy brown hair lightly.

In such times, Eragon desperately wished that Saphira was with him, to soothe him with a friendly advice or punish him because of how he hurt her. With a sore taste in his mouth, Eragon threw down the lid of the chest and placed it back from whence he took it before he climbed onto the cot, sighing loudly.

_I don't understand anything anymore, _he thought, a look of defeat in his face. After his world was turned upside down, it was as if everyone was refraining from giving him a helpful hand in this great time of need: Saphira abandoned him; or he was the one to abandon her. Glaedr made things even more complicated with his mysterious advice, yet Eragon felt a vague trace of something hidden in his words.

A snort of disbeliefescaped him. _He lost his partner of mind and soul, and I begin to suspect things?_ Eragon mentally scolded himself, as Saphira was not there to do this for him. Suddenly, his thoughts pushed aside the recent events and all the problems they brought. He missed Saphira, the only being he could confide in. Maybe this inner turmoil was caused by their separation in the first place.

Wasting no time, Eragon jumped onto his feet and ran towards the door, opening it with quickly. As soon as he was out of the tense chamber, the fresh air alerted his senses and soothed his mind. _I'd better find an apology…and an answer,_ he thought as he made his way down the forlorn road.

* * *

"The winds of fate intertwine in mysterious ways. One can not change his destiny, as it is laid before him well ahead of his time."

"The time has come then. Our part in the cycle is not yet complete."

**So the hard part I was talking about was the Glaedr one. I'm asking you very nicely to tell me in a review how I handled it, because it matters a lot to me. So far, the story registered a bit over 1200 hits, and that's quite a lot if you ask me.**

**Also, the very mysterious dialogue at the end will be revealed later, so do not ask me about them! They are kind of important, and I bet you can never guess who says that. If you like this story, you can also add it to favorites to keep track of it easier. At least that's what I do with the stories that interest me. The next chapter might come as soon as saturday, so until then, surprise me with the number of reviews, and I get you an extra supplies of cookies for your effort.**


	9. Eragon's penance

**I apologize for not updating yesterday. I kind of struggled with this chapter due to its contents, but it turned out quite well. For this chapter and the next one, the plot slows down a bit in favor of some character development. After that, the interesting part picks up and will continue, much to your enjoyment. Without further ado, I present you this humble chapter. **

**As another note, I take every review into consideration. No matter if you are anonymous or not, your reviews gladden me. So keep them coming, and enjoy yourself.**

It was quiet, so quiet compared to how the city buzzed with activity when Galbatorix himself walked to the gates of Feinster. The shouts, wails of pain and curses have all been reduced to a bad memory now, engulfed by the tranquility of the night.

A group of shady looking people mumbled something one to another, their rough voices probably expressing their displeasure, grief or sadness. Or maybe they were plotting on preying on their fellow kin to enhance their life. Their clothes betrayed them, but Eragon cared little about them as his head inclined towards an extinguished torch from a house next to him.

This analogy baffled him: the same way the torch was extinguished by the cold air, so was the hope of the people the moment when he failed to defeat Galbatorix. Increasing his pace, Eragon bit his lip in frustration. _That is enough! What's done is done, and I can do nothing to remedy my ill fate now!_ He longed for the times spent with Saphira, when he would do something stupid and be put straight on the right path by her in a kind and gentle way. Well, at least most of the times.

Only the thoughts about his partner of mind and soul sent a wave of joy through his body in the form of a shudder. But the happy scenario taking place inside his head was way different from the real situation, almost like a mock directed to his recklessness. The sound of heavy footsteps, as low as soft thuds, came from the surrounding area, but Eragon was too absorbed in his own thoughts to care about it.

When the street forked and Eragon turned left to exit Feinster, he almost fell on his back when he saw a huge blue dragon a few feet in front of him, with a shady figure on her back. His shocked expression became even more obvious when Saphira snarled and dashed towards his location. Her front paw encircled his body, the iron strong grip drawing the air out of him. A faint cough escaped him, but it was soon covered by the flap of her strong wings as the dragoness took off to the skies, the ground dwarfing progressively from Eragon's imprisonment.

A dim scream, followed by a few unrecognizable words, reached Eragon's ears, but that was the least of his concern. .His vision flickered and darkness almost took over his conscience when a few voices messed around in his head.

_Saphira, how can you expect him to apologize when he can't even breath?_ A feminine voice said, but the familiar roar belonging to Saphira cut her off, _That is his penance for treating me so, Emerald-eyes, but I believe he owes us both an apology._

Eragon inhaled deeply when the grip exerted on his body lessened, allowing him to think clear again. His face was red like a hearty blaze and the bulging veins to his temples lessened their size slowly. Still, something gave him the impression that he was more of a trade object, as the two females paid more attention to each other than him right now.

_You know I don't like when you do that Saphira. Unlike Eragon, flying makes me nauseous. _The voice he heard moments before complained, but Saphira's grinding laughter did not allow Eragon even a moment to realize who that person was.

_Then we should fly more often together. The skies are where I belong, and I expect you not insult my domain. _The shock of revelation struck Eragon dead in the spot_. Emerald eyes…_ If his arms could move, they would immediately engulf his face. Why was Arya present in such embarrassing moment? Still, he couldn't help but feel a wave of happiness and relief wash over him. She was safe, and this is all what mattered… except from his still quite embarrassing position.

With great effort, Eragon twisted his head so that his eyes met Saphira's chin and grinned stupidly, _would a normal apology release me from your claws, o great queen of the skies?_ Saphira's eyes gazed into his, and then she craned her neck as to look at the one who was riding her.

_Yes, NO!_ Saphira growled faintly at Arya, who dared interfere in her plans. Out of a sudden, Saphira descended, summoning a scream of terror from her passenger and an almost inaudible shout from Eragon who could see the ground approaching faster than ever.

The impact with the ground sent vibrations through Saphira's body, whose powerful hind legs dug into the soft soil. Without even having to ask, Eragon was dropped to the ground in a quite rude manner. The first thing he did was to roll out of Saphira's paw that connected with the floor shortly after.

Just when he thought it was over, Saphira's snout towered above him, her eyes staring at him menacingly, _you haven't quite fulfilled your penance._ This time, Eragon knew she meant it, and there was little he could do to stop Saphira's rough tongue from brushing all over his body. While the tip of her tongue was soft and barb less, the dragoness was smart enough not to allow Eragon an easy time.

"I aplo…apologize", Eragon barely said through a short break before the vengeful weapon brushed over his body, all the way to his face once again. Suddenly, a shocking and terror filled realization entered his mind. If Saphira would continue licking him this way, his clothes would not only turn to scraps, but…

As Saphira's tongue slid across his body once again, he felt the warm but not pleasant surface brush against his belly. The tunic started to give in already, and his leggings were not quite resilient. With an alarmed voice, he yelled, _Saphira stop! I will face a penance worse than this one, but not in front of…_ The sly dragoness retreated her tongue, a sense of accomplishment emanating from her. Making him crack in such unreasonable way surely pleased her.

From the saddle, Eragon thought he heard a chuckle. Due to his lower position, he couldn't see anything, but his ears registered a soft thud. With the corner of his eyes, he saw Arya, whose green eyes bore into his for a short moment before she looked elsewhere. He almost froze in embarrassment were it not for Saphira, who laughed in her own throaty way.

Unable to take this anymore, Eragon got up and wiped his now wry face in disgust. Luckily, Saphira hadn't eaten recently, but he still felt uncomfortable to go anywhere near Arya. The perceptive dragoness was not sitting idly, staring dumbly at him, as she had her own mischievous plans.

_Emerald eyes, Eragon looks scruffy in his current shape, and you already know that he cannot care for himself. _The sulky Rider smiled wryly at Saphira, then looked towards Arya with embarrassment. He was immediately taken aback by what he saw. As soon as his eyes drifted towards her, Eragon could almost swear that she sketched a smile. With the usual serious expression on her face, Arya nodded.

Eragon felt a strange sense of peace when he looked into her eyes. His heart accelerated its beating and a sensation he was not familiar with crawled up his skin. Arya reciprocated this strange gaze, making Eragon feel even more uncomfortable. He wanted to end this, but at the same time, he wanted it to last forever.

Saphira was the one who ripped him from his pleasant trance as her paw grabbed him in a way Eragon was already familiar with. Arya shuddered at the sudden disturbance and smiled a half smile before she brought an arm to her face when Saphira's wings buffeted the air around her, raising dust and debris off the ground.

Time seemed to slow down around Eragon when Arya's smile sneaked through his senses, his thoughts, reaching one wound that even Saphira couldn't heal. It was the smile of a friend, who, despite the suffering and pain she endured, did not let darkness and desperation engulf her mind, like he did. Even if all seemed lost to Eragon after the harsh defeat, her smile was enough to restore hope to the hopeless. Life goes on, and such hardships would only strengthen the reciprocated bonds he established. Surrendering to his desperation was never an option, and he could see clearly now.

Eragon remembered where he was in a brutal way when Saphira's full of indignation voice entered his mind, _how can Arya accomplish something I can not? Am I not important to you at all?_

Try as he might to shift his body in a comfortable position, Eragon failed to do so. He felt like a helpless fawn on her claws, but getting used to this was way easier than a licking session. _You are my half, Saphira. Without you, I am not complete. I came to realize that too late, and I deeply apologize for hurting you._

A low hum of joy came from his captor_, at least you can still make amends for it. That's something I cannot say about your clothes._ Both Eragon and Saphira started to laugh, enjoying each other's company while they flew across the cloudless sky, the silver moon shining bright as a silver eldunari.

The wind caressed Eragon's face, and when he looked above and saw the moon, the image of Glaedr's eldunari entered his mind. On one hand, he was not keen to share this information with Saphira, not when she finally decided that the punishment was over. Still, delaying it would lead to further complications, and the least Eragon wanted was to concern Arya even more.

As the ocean came into view, Saphira ceased flapping her wings and glided majestically above the shore, where she landed slowly. As soon as Eragon was free from her grip, he stretched his body and took off his boots, leggings and tunic and glanced back at Saphira with a frightened look on his face. Only the cold wind was enough to make him tremble heavily, and the water was probably frozen.

_I'll keep you warm if you get out quick enough before turning into an ice block, _Saphira teased and lowered her body onto the sand.

_Why don't bathe with me?_ Eragon replied slyly, but she looked unconvinced. He knew that Saphira preferred warm spots, and cold water was one of her big dislikes. From her position, Saphira fixed one sapphire eye on him, snorting indifferently, _I am not smeared in saliva from head to toe, little one._

The harsh truth hit Eragon harder than the biting wind that grew in intensity. His tremors were but a small of what was to come, but if he had to choose between a frost shock and a clean body, he preferred the latter. Gritting his teeth, Eragon stepped into the water with one reluctant step.

The ocean in autumn was as cold as he imagined, and his foot felt like it was penetrated by thousand of needles. He wanted to groan his displeasure, but that would only give Saphira pleasure. Deciding to end this torment as soon as possible, Eragon plunged into the water. The shock was so intense that he could not even scream, and his whole body seemed numb. Fighting against his physical condition, Eragon ran his hands across his body and cleaned himself as fast as possible.

Saphira, who sat on the shore, warm and dry, looked like a beacon of salvation from his. As if anticipating what he was about to do, she opened one wing, laughing a draconic laugh. Without further delays, Eragon shot towards the warm haven at a speed he did not deem possible.

_Re…remind me n..not to… provoke you…again, _Eragon babbled as he made his way towards her warm side. The heat radiating from her scales felt blissful to him, and the protective leathery surface that draped him was much welcomed.

_You remind yourself, Eragon. How can I ever lick you if I do?_ He wanted to laugh, but his shivering denied him to do so.

After warming and drying himself thanks to Saphira, Eragon placed one hand on the leathery surface of her wing, _I had to talk to Glaedr. _Saphira almost growled in surprise, and he could feel her hind paw scratching the ground. Mixed emotions ran through her, the most predominant being sadness at such cruel reminded. He almost felt sorry for bringing this up, especially when Saphira was such in high spirits.

_What was your reasoning for disturbing him?_ Eragon could feel her displeasure across their link, but that was inevitable. He was the only friendly dragon she had met, and now that he was no more, Saphira felt depressed whenever she would think about him.

_I had to know if what Galbatorix said was true, but…_ Eragon trailed off when Saphira growled in protest and removed her wing, exposing his naked body to the chilling wind. Wanting not to play her game, he got onto his feet and tried to run towards his clothes, but Saphira's snout stopped him right away, and her sapphire eyes seemed like icy orbs, colder than the wind.

_You allowed the egg breaker to twist your mind in such way as to doubt our masters?_ Saphira roared, massive drops of saliva flying from her mouth, straight onto Eragon's now clean skin. He never expected such a reaction from her, and Saphira seemed to understand that she too crossed the limit. Her snout approached his chest, nuzzling him gently.

_I… I don't know what to think anymore, Saphira. All I ever wanted was to end this war, no matter the means I have to use, _he said, placing both of his hands on her snout while lowering his brow on it. Her warm breath send shudders across his body, and Eragon found himself enjoying it immensely in contrast with the cold air around him.

_That's the way his twisted mind works, little one. He wants you to doubt yourself so that he can strike while you are weakened. _Eragon found it impossible not to trust the reality of this situation. Saphira was his partner of mind and soul, and not trusting her meant lying to himself.

_You are right, as always. What would I do without you?_ He complimented Saphira, scratching her smooth snout scales hard enough to tickle her. As a reward to his way of thinking, the warm blanket that was Saphira's wing enveloped Eragon once again, but he had other plans, it seemed, when he crawled out of the warm shelter.

_Thanks to you, I have to go through the trial of ice once again, _Eragon lamented before he repeated the same agonizing bath as before. After warming up next to Saphira, he equipped his clothes and boots and got onto the saddle, a privilege that he hadn't had before.

_What you humans do to impress your mates… it's not like you were dirty because of me, _Saphira said mockingly, lifting onto her four. After she glanced one more time at Eragon, who smiled sarcastically at her, the dragoness roared and launched herself into the air, leaving deep gashes into the sandy shore.

For Eragon, flying back to the forest surrounding Feinster in the saddle felt like a distant memory that had finally repeated, much to his enjoyment. In the past few days, he almost forgot how relaxing a flight with Saphira can be, and one of his regrets was that he never paid attention to it. However, this was not the only reason Eragon felt happy and accomplished. His way back to the forest held another importance to him, one that Saphira knew all too well.

_Saphira, what happened after you left me?_ He asked mischievously, almost hoping that she spent her time with Arya. It seemed logical, knowing that Arya was almost a part of their small family, and should Saphira feel the need to spend her time with someone she trusted, Arya was the best choice after him.

_That's not something I have to reveal to you Eragon, _Saphira sealed his hopes, almost in a brutal way. A slight feeling of envy crept inside Eragon, knowing that she was probably hiding a great deal of information from him. Still, insisting on invading her privacy would end up bad for the both of them, and as much as Eragon hated to give up, this was a fight he couldn't win. Displeased, he decided to approach another subject that kept nagging his mind ever since he talked to Glaedr.

_Master told me something about unknown powers roaming around this land. Could that be a connection to something? _

Saphira's answer was a total letdown, _what does that have to do with your previous question?_ The way she said it, the sarcasm present in her voice, it almost made Eragon bit his lip in frustration. Why couldn't she, for once, provide a useful answer that would satisfy him? Adopting a sulky expression, he decided that a dialogue with Saphira would prove futile, and he was also too tired and not in the mood for her games.

When Saphira was right about the grove where she left Arya, her belly rumbled due to the lack of food, inevitably attracting a loud laugh from Eragon. Because of the recent events, she spent most of her time with Eragon, forgetting about the hunt and how beneficial it was to relieve some tension.

_I want to see how you are fairing when we will fly through the desert, where your pitiful fruits are scarce,_ Saphira tried to defend her pride, but with Eragon, it never worked. The smug look on face became serious all of a sudden when he looked below. Arya waited there, she waited this whole time for him, even if her tired expression and drowsy eyes indicated the need to rest.

Disconnected as he was from the reality when he watched Arya, he did not even realize that Saphira just landed. Her furious snort made Eragon jerk his head around and glanced at Saphira questioningly.

_Off my back, unless you want a branch to knock you down while I hunt,_ Saphira said with amusement, and Eragon smiled stupidly at her before he jumped down on the ground. Surely she had noticed that he was somewhat absent minded, but he did not even care.

As soon as the burden was relieved from her body, Saphira shook her head to one side and launched herself into the air, flapping her wings lazily as she disappeared past the canopy of trees.

**Was it cute, at least? Eragon spends some time with Saphira, we see some ExA development, which will continue along the story, up to a point. I very much want to hear all of your opinions, and as you guessed, the best way to do it is in a review.**

**P.S: I apologize if there are spelling mistakes/typos/errors spread around. I had little time for this story this weekend, and even less time to edit.**


	10. The Answer does not lie within feelings

**I expect some better critique for this chapter is it is fine with you readers. I feel like a did a huge oopsie with Arya and Eragon, and I need your help to get back on the track. At least the plot is moving, and so does the word count.**

"Where have you been?" Eragon wobbled on his legs that threatened to collapse when his eyes met Arya, who was standing next to him. Her melodious chuckle resonated through the still air as Eragon recuperated his footing and tried to smile, to show that he was not so clumsy, but his lips refused to obey.

Arya raised her eyebrows, her questioning gaze making him feel nervous and numb at the same time. "To the ocean. I needed to…to…" he stuttered, the word simply evading his mind like it was one of Saphira's annoying teases.

"To clean yourself from the recent incident?" Arya smiled and ran a hand through her tangled raven hair. Her eyes rocked back and forth between him and the ground, and Eragon almost suffered an embarrassment attack when the truth hit him. He was standing in front of her like a fool, unable to even form some words.

"Y-yes. Saphira's mouth is not one of the cleanest places, "he said quickly, his face turning red like a cherry. The weight that had previously pressed on his mind lost a part of its dreadful pressure when Arya laughed quietly, turning his inner lead into soft silk with her voice.

Still, even if her wounds seemed to have healed, her lustrous green eyes that hanged towards the ground like a frail willow made Eragon feel uneasy. She has been through almost as much as him, but her troubled past amplified her suffering ten fold compared to him. What surprised Eragon was that she coped well with this pain, unlike him, who allowed desperation to engulf him.

"I will show you a beautiful grove where I and Saphira retreat whenever Nasuada has no use for us," Eragon said uncertainly, trying to break out this tense moment between them. Arya favored him a quick smile that almost made Eragon's heart leap with joy. However, the promise was false, and a serious expression immediately darkened Arya's face.

"Eragon, I…cannot." Her words worried him greatly. Just when he thought he was able to understand Arya, something like this would show up. Driven by instinct, Eragon walked towards her and placed a hand on her stiff shoulder, her body shuddering at his touch.

"Arya, what is the matter?" She raised her head at his question, her emerald eyes staring right into his. A great sadness lingered within them, and Eragon couldn't help but to feel guilty once again for bringing this upon her. Just when he was about to say something, her hand moved towards her shoulder, grabbing his own with her soft yet powerful hand.

"Nothing. I am just happy to see you again," she replied hastily and dropped his hand before she turned around and started to walk slowly towards the cluster of trees.

Sensing her troubles, Eragon ran to her side, „If this is about…"

"No it is nothing. I was just glad that you are alright." Her frail tone sounded anything but convincing, and her now accelerated pace sent a surge of unpleasant thoughts through his mind. Her agitation reminded him of how he was when stressed, only that Saphira was always there for him. Unlike him, Arya had no one to confide in, except for him. Should he fail to help a friend in need, Eragon could never forgive himself.

Even if he hated to do it, Eragon placed himself in front of her, cutting any possibility of escape. Confused, Arya tried to move right, but his firm grip on her shoulders prevented any movement on her part, "I am glad too, but you are not telling me the whole truth." Her tense and serious expression softened, revealing the sadness that truly dominated her.

"They all perished… because of my weakness and my sate for revenge, they died. You almost died!" Her shaky voice almost turned into a scream at the end, but Eragon did not blame her. If anything, he should be the one to take the full blame, as the only Rider of the Varden. The distressed elf tried to release from his grip, but his calm yet persistent gaze soon ceased her twitching arms.

"There are things we cannot prevent from happening. It is because of you the reason I live," he added soothingly, hoping that Saphira's judgment that now rubbed on him would work on Arya too. Telling her how he truly felt was a mistake he did not want to make, and his concerns could wait for another time.

A sigh of hopelessness escaped Arya, "Eragon, you still do not understand. And I don't expect you to. My burden is my own." Her words shocked Eragon, rendering his deadened arms almost useless. Taking this opportunity, Arya removed herself from his grip and prepared to leave.

"I could not even understand myself after the battle, let alone the others," Eragon murmured to himself and dropped on the grass, a look of defeat on his face. When the screech of an owl disturbed him, Eragon looked above, but his eyes fixed on the slender body of Arya. She just stood there, like a sentinel of the forest.

He did not know what was happening in her mind, even if he tried to. Much to his shock, Arya turned around to face him and trudged towards him, throwing him a quick glance before she sat on the forest floor, a few feet away from him.

"I cannot run away anymore. Cowardice is seldom helpful, but…" her soft voice trailed off into the wind, intertwining with the sounds of the night. Blood rushed to Eragon's face when an urge to grab her in his arms and comfort her to the best of his abilities corrupted his thoughts, but he quickly swayed it off.

"You can always run to a friend instead." Arya jerked her head to match his stare immediately. Unable to look at her anymore, Eragon bowed his head in shame, mentally berating himself for the words that left his mouth without his consent.

"I appreciate this Eragon, but I…" Arya shifted her body, trying to slide closer to Eragon. Perplexed due to this sudden transition in her behavior, he looked at her, smiling encouragingly.

"Two lovebirds! Of course, you are both too big to be birds, but that is most fascinating!" A feminine voice came from behind, breaking the silence in an instant. Shuddering violently, Eragon turned around, his bewildered gaze meeting the culprit for this disturbance.

Right behind them stood Angela, holding a vine basket on her frail arm. From behind her, Solembum brushed his body against her left leg, lifting his tail upwards. Arya immediately shot onto her legs, brushing the dust and debris off her green tunic and black leggings.

"It's so unproductive to linger instead of doing what really matters," Angela complained and bent down to pet Solembum, who purred at her sensitive touch. Eragon couldn't help but to stare at the peculiar sight with incredulity. What unnerved him the most was Solembum's persistent gaze, whose red slitted eyes were almost not allowing him to look anywhere else.

_Remember what I've told you, Rider. _His voice sounded in Eragon's head before he interrupted the eye contact, running past Angela. From what he could see, Arya was almost as surprised as he was, but she dared saying nothing.

"If there was a spell to make mushrooms jump in my basket, it would be so easy," Angela chuckled and left as silent as she came. A drop of sweat slid down Eragon's face after the unnerving encounter, and just when he sighed in relief, the same pestering voice entered his mind, _A lost battle is like a withered herb: it is not useful. If answers are what you seek, go visit Tenga. Happy chirps together!_

Eragon allowed his body to collapse in relief after the weird herbalist was gone. Her visit could not had been timed worse. The least Eragon wanted was a pile of worries just when Arya was around.

As if on cue, Arya released from her invisible tangles and moved towards him, "What does she mean?"

Eragon shrugged, "I don't know, she is always like this." While Arya searched for a place to rest her body, Eragon thought about Solembum and Angela. The reason for their visit was mysterious, and so were their words. Why would he visit Tenga? Surely there was more to it than just that. Unless… Eragon jumped to his feet suddenly, as if struck by a revelation. _Solembum…the Rock of Kuthian!_ He thought, pacing around nervously.

"Eragon what happened?" asked Arya as she pushed her torso up with the aid of her arms. In his agitation, Eragon didn't even look at her for more than a split second. _That's it! Tenga might know where I can find it!_ He thought, a smile of victory on his face. If this was the answer he was searching for, then wasting this opportunity might prove to be the worst decision.

Still, before embarking in such journey, he had to take care of a multitude of aspects. First of, telling Arya seemed like a bad idea, especially when she had yet to recuperate after the recent tragedy. His heart ached to abandon her, but if this decision would keep her safe, then so be it.

"Nothing, it's just that…" Arya frowned deeply at his words, revealing an anger Eragon was not quite acquainted with.

"Do not trick me, Eragon. I have the right to know, as a friend," she said on a pressing tone and got onto her feet. Her words softened his resolve a little, but his decision held strong.

"Arya, I care about you more than you can think, and putting you into harm's way is not something I would like to do," he pleaded, but his gamble failed to work. Determined as ever to get to the bottom of this, Arya used her speed and strength to knock Eragon down and pin his hands with her own.

"Knowing that I saved your life, it is futile to argue with me." Her face was closer to him than ever before, and only now could Eragon admire her true splendor. The way her emerald eyes sparkled with frightening beauty, her hair that emanated an alluring scent of pine needles, and above all, her strength and determination to protect the ones she cared about.

The eerie moment lasted than both of them could comprehend. Eragon had no idea what happened, or what made him feel the way he did. The emotions that surged through him at that time were alien to him, but he wanted to experience it again, desperately.

Arya released him, assuming the same serious expression she used to trick foolish humans, but it did not work on Eragon. He could see past it, and there was sadness in her eyes, and disappointment. He wanted to protect her, but more than that, he wished to never disappoint his only friend, the only being that cared the most about him after Saphira.

With an apologetically voice, he said, "I have to travel somewhere. I will tell you more on our way to Nasuada." Arya did not question his motives, nor asked anything futile about his unknown plan.

"Good, because I would never accept a no," she smiled slyly and adapted to Eragon's pace, walking to his left. He barely refrained to sigh when Arya joined him, but deep in his mind, past his caution and protective attitude towards her, he was happy that she was coming with him.

On the way to Feinster, Eragon explained to her what happened in the woods and why was this quest so important to him. At first, Arya was surprised, almost shocked, to hear that Eragon was about to abandon the Varden on behalf of the words spoken by a woman who seemed absent minded, but Eragon stressed again just how important this was. In the end, it was Arya that gave up and embraced his judgment, even she didn't feel keen on doing so.

"And you expect this man, Tenga, to know where this Rock of Kuthian is?" Arya questioned with a bit of enmity in her voice. After what he told her, Eragon felt that she feared the possibility of toying with something that might far exceed anyone's capabilities of knowledge and magic.

"Something tells me that we are going to find out soon enough," Eragon concluded as they entered the city. Nasuada's quarters were located in the west part of the lower town, where the damage had not spread like wild fire.

By taking a short way that winded through the different houses, Eragon and Arya reached Nasuada's pavilion in a matter of minutes. One of the two nighthawks guarding the door almost suffered a panic attack when Eragon appeared from behind a building.

"We would like to speak with Nasuada," Eragon said on a low voice. The human guard nodded and pushed the door open, entering the makeshift quarters for the leader of the Varden. The other guard, a stout red bearded dwarf stared at him with suspicion, but Eragon did not even flinch under his gaze.

"Why ye ran in the forest, Shadeslayer? To avoid the ruckus that overwhelmed the city?" Eragon almost felt insulted by this guard, but he kept his emotions in check, unlike Arya, who stared at him menacingly.

"Because of him, you still have a life to live," Arya retorted almost brutally, silencing the pesky dwarf who narrowed his eyebrows at her threat. Eragon's eyes widened at how fierce Arya could get at times, but what surprised him more was that she actually did that in his defense.

The tense atmosphere was dissipated after the human nighthawk emerged from the building with a look of dissatisfaction on his face. Even a fool could predict that something was wrong, and his words merely confirmed Eragon's suspicion.

"Shadeslayer, Nasuada is asleep and is not receiving anybody, no matter your position," he declared solemnly and assumed a stoic position on the side of the door. Fearing that Arya might verbally destroy this man too, Eragon glanced at her and then addressed the guard.

"She will accept us. We have to talk about a matter of great importance." Both of the guards unsheathed their weapons and frowned at him. Arya was almost as fast as them in unsheathing her blade, but Eragon refrained from doing so.

"Yer important discussion will have to wait until morning. Now, begone!" The dwarf almost shouted, lifting the sword above his head.

"Slytha," Arya whispered. The two guards fell face first on the cobblestone floor, their armor thudding with a metallic tone.

"Good thinking," Eragon told her, and Arya smiled in return. With no other problems between them and Nasuada, Eragon entered the house, followed by Arya. The interior was very similar to how his own house looked like, only that most of the space was replaced by a big table and numerous seats, enough for the generals to assemble. The only source of light was an almost dead candle that burned slowly on the table. On the right, there was a door that presumably leads to the dormitory.

After beckoning Arya to wait, Eragon slowly pushed it open, entering the dark room slowly and with soft steps. With a silent spell he lit the candle placed on a nightstand and looked towards the bed.

Nasuada, still oblivious to her surroundings, was dressed in a golden robe laced with black patterns. Her hair was a mess and her hands were placed in such way that they almost did not belong to her.

"Nasuada, wake up," Eragon said in a silent yet powerful enough voice to rouse the sleeping leader. Alerted by the sudden disturbance, Nasuada blinked drowsily and raised slowly from her curled position. After brushing her eyes with her hands, she immediately assumed a more adequate posture.

"Eragon! Why are you here?" From her voice, Eragon could notice that she wasn't quite happy with his intrusion, but her preferences were all but a hindrance to him.

"I have to go in search of answers, along with Arya and Saphira." Sleepy and numb as she was, Nasuada still contorted her face into a disapproving frown.

"You plan to leave in such critical moment? Has the defeat entangled your senses in such way?" Eragon grit his teeth, but kept his temper in check. What Nasuada said was almost like an insult to him, but knowing what responsibility weighed on her shoulders, he did not put the blame on her for being concerned about the Varden.

"Nasuada, you have to understand. If there is something, anything we can use to defeat Galbatorix, I must exploit that advantage." Eragon's calm voice softened her scornful look and her eyes acquired a more pleasant expression. After shifting her body, Nasuada sighed with worry.

"I…I will see what there is to do. It will be hard to keep people united, after we almost had a riot involving Lorana's personal troops." Eragon smiled and bowed as a sign of good will.

"Thank you, Nasuada. I have the feeling that the Varden wouldn't really miss me though." He said before he exited the room, leaving Nasuada alone to her worries and concerns. As soon as he was out, Arya raised one eyebrow questioningly, and Eragon nodded.

"That went better than expected," Arya said as he pushed the door open.

"It's because my good persuasion skills," Eragon joked and tried to smile, but as soon as his head was out of the house, his face became dead serious due to shock.

"Going somewhere?" With the corner of his eye, he saw the slender body of Angela the herbalist, who wore a simple white dress, along with the same basket she carried around on her forearm. The first option that came to Eragon was to lie, but he immediately swayed it away on further retrospection. Angela was the one to tell him about Tenga, so it was only natural that she knew what his next move would be.

"Y-yes actually. I will follow your advice," he said quickly and turned around, hoping that she would leave him alone after obtaining his answer.

"Outstanding! I am going to accompany you then," she said, full of satisfaction and joy.

Eragon shook his head reluctantly, "This is not quite possible. Arya is already accompanying me, and Saphira might not be able to carry us all."

"Your concern flatters me, Eragon," said Angela, approaching him. "But Solembum and I can and will fly with you."

This sounded more like a demand than a request for Eragon. Puzzled because of this whole situation, he wanted to ask Arya for an advice, but the werecat's persistent gaze made him think otherwise.

"It is also Saphira's decision," he sighed. Eragon backed away slightly when Angela extended one hand on his cheek, an appreciative look on her face.

"She will say yes," she said as she withdrew her head. "Being all tense make your face wrinkle." Her laughter was anything but pleasant for Eragon, and judging the look on Arya's face, she was as confused and slightly perturbed as he was. Not to appear rude, his lips stretched into a smile and a quick nod made Angela turn around and pick Solembum in her arms, whispering him something that his ears could not percept.

_Maybe she doesn't know that Saphira is not with us, _Eragon hoped, but it was not to happen. Turning around as she forgot something of great importance, Angela rolled her eyes.

"Rotten mushrooms! I almost forgot that Saphira was hunting." Eragon's expression turned serious in an instant. Would this mean that Angela would accompany them all the way towards the forest, and everywhere they would travel after? Swaying his thoughts aside, he looked at Arya in puzzlement, and she reciprocated a similar gaze. Was there something Angela did not know?

Happy and enthusiastic as a newborn fawn, Angela sprung on her feet and passed by Eragon, heading down the road, towards the exit of Feinster. A break after such uncanny and tense moment was most welcome, both for him and Arya.

"She is unlike any woman I have ever seen," said Arya, taking the lead.

"There is something about her, it's just that I cannot quite put my finger on it," Eragon replied and proceeded to follow her.

**Angela is quite the weird character in this story. Her role, while not determined yet, seems to be rather important, don't you think? As always, reviews are well appreciated and I want to see as many as you can pull out. While you review, here's something to think about: What is your opinion about Angela? If you can guess what she is up to, review, and if you get close enough, you can even win a spoiler!**


	11. Gil'ead Rumble

**No, it's not a simple repost so I can get views and brag on teh internets. Actually, I feel that the previous chapter and the next one were so tied to each other that keeping them separate was sad for me, lonely for them. Tell me what you think about it.**

A fountain of crimson red liquid that matched the color of Zar'roc was released the moment the sharp tip of the sword pierced through the golden scales and the solid bone which made Glaedr's skull. The quick strike ended the life of the great golden dragon instantly, yet no roar, no growl or even a faint whimper announced his demise as his limp body fell towards the ground. Dragon blood splashed on Murtagh's body, changing the color of the black leather armor that protected him, yet the human seemed not to pay any attention to it. Murtagh's dark brown eyes were staring into a deep, unknown abyss, for no flicker of thought was present in his blank stare.

The long, high-pitched yowls mixed with roars of pain and agony released by the red dragon did little to snap Murtagh from his trance-like state, for his features remained as impassive as ever. No emotions, no feelings, no reactions of his face muscles betrayed any hint that the Rider was not the morbid, realistic work of an expert artisan.

"Graaarrghhhhh," screamed Murtagh as the king's presence vanished from his mind in an instant, allowing him to resume control over his actions.

His face quickly acquired a cherry red color as Murtagh struggled to breathe in as much air as he could, as if he was not allowed to breathe for an extended period of time.

His body was wracked by a cold shivering, and his limbs felt unusually stiff. But, among his feelings, there was one that forced him to scream in agony: pain, intense pain which kind was never experienced before crippled Murtagh's body. It felt like a part of his own body was tore off, leaving behind a bloody wound which could not be mended in any form.

The powerful air currents zipped past the red dragon and his Rider as the two slowly descended from the high altitude they were flying at. After the pain seemed to subside a bit, Murtagh slowly turned his head and his body around so he could look behind. A loud scream of pain escaped him the moment when his tear-drenched eyes fixed themselves on Thorn's tail. The once long elegant tail of the red dragon lost a considerable part of its length as a large stump which never ceased to ooze blood replaced the slim tail tip.

"wai-waise...he-hel," murtagh whispered, slowly extending his right hand towards the bloody stump. Seconds passed and nothing seemed to happen. Another loud roar reverberated through the sky, temporary silencing the shouts and cries of the battle that was raging below.

"Waise…heil!" he said with conviction.

Immediately after his incantation, Murtagh's gedwey ignasia glowed red as the healing spell began to take effect. His strength quickly began to subside and Murtagh almost cursed himself for his stupidity and forgetfulness as he broke the spell almost as quick as he began casting it.

Thorn roared in pain the moment when a part of his wounds closed, stopping most of the terrible bleeding which affected his tail.

Murtagh quickly grabbed a spike with his hand and held hard as the red dragon's flight became more irregular as Thorn began to wobble. His body angled to the right, then to the left as Thorn struggled with his flight. His large wings which were powerful enough to maintain him in the air were flapping slowly, but this was not enough in preventing a collision with the buildings of the city.

Murtagh touched the mind of his partner-of-heart-and-soul, but he drew back in an instant as a powerful wave of pain prevented him from speaking with his dragon.

_Curse that golden beast for doing this to my dragon_, thought Murtagh with malice.

Extending his mind towards the eldunarya, Murtagh drained a small part of their energy to replenish his strength. Then, he switched his attention towards the damaged tail, but could do nothing as Thorn's body suddenly angled downwards, dangerously close to a dive.

Murtagh recoiled in surprise, but did not give up as he muttered the needed words for the healing spell. A loud roar of pain was released shortly after, and among the red scales and trails of blood Murtagh could notice the fast approaching ground.

"Blast it!" he shouted as he began to utter a silent incantation.

Murtagh's words were lost in the frenzy of the battle as different screams could be heard coming from the battle field. Stray arrows whistled through the sky, some of them even hitting Thorn as he quickly descended. And then….

A loud booming sound reverberated through the buildings of the city, shaking off the dust on the paved roads as the red dragon crashed into a wooden booth, smashing the wood into smaller pieces, his body being dragged on the stone covered ground a short distance before it came to a stop.

Surprisingly, the impact was not as devastating as it seemed, for Murtagh used one of his spells in the last moment before crashing. Shaking his head and brushing the dust in front of him with his hand, Murtagh quickly dismounted from the saddle and jumped on the ground.

_Please be alright Thorn…I can't… I just ca__nnot bear losing you_, he thought as he walked with quick steps towards his partner's head.

As he expected from the harsh impact he just experienced, Thorn's eyes were closed and his breathing was slower than usual. Murtagh gently patted the smooth red scales on the dragon's neck, running his hand along until he reached the side of his head.

_Thorn, I know I am asking much of you, but you need to recover quickly. It will not be long until the elves will discover us here_, he said, his solemn stare faltering as he looked at his dragon. _I'm so sorry that you had to go through all of this because of me…because of my weakness to oppose Galbatorix. It's because of me that you were forced into a miserable life of slavery, _said Murtagh as he fell onto his knees, sobbing quietly.

Suddenly, a low rumbling growl escaped from the red dragon, making Murtagh flinch back in surprise. _It is…not your fault, _came the frail, yet calming voice of his partner-of-soul. Quickly wiping the tears that have gathered in his dark brown eyes, he moved towards Thorn and hugged his neck as hard as he could, _You have no idea how grateful I am for being able to speak to you, Thorn. After Galbatorix has… killed that dragon, I felt your pain and tried to contact you but…_

Thorn released a low growl, _Do not dwell too much on it, little one, for that moment belongs in the past now._

Murtagh gently patted and scratched the side of Thorn's face, _you are right, as always. I told you many times that I will be lost without you, Thorn. You are the only good thing that has happened in my miserable life ever since I was born. _

Thorn growled faintly at the pleasant contact, but Murtagh quickly retracted his hand as a loud cry of pain was heard from somewhere nearby. Quickly getting onto his feet, Murtagh scanned the surrounding area. He was located in a small area which was surrounded by buildings. A few bloodied corpses could be seen on the stone paved ground, aside from the few wooden booths and chairs that were placed around. From the looks of it, this was a small trading point as the booths had all kinds of comestibles on them, ranging from different colored fruits to red meat.

_That shout definitely came from somewhere nearby. If it were not for these buildings we would be found already, _stated Murtagh.

_I share your concerns, Murtagh, but the fight with the elder dragon weakened me greatly, for my wings feel weak and my limbs frail._

The frail and weak voice of his dragon concerned Murtagh. Quickly turning the attention towards Thorn, Murtagh circled him and inspected his body for any injuries that might have been missed. It was not easy to notice them as the blood was almost the same color as his scales, but at the same time it was impossible missing the large, circular punctures that pierced Thorn's left hind leg.

Murtagh gasped at the unpleasant sight as coagulated, sticky blood covered most of the scales completely. The smell was also hard to bear, but Murtagh paid no attention to it as he moved, feelings of anger and vengeance towards the golden dragon filling his mind.

_I am going to heal your hind leg Thorn, but you need to stay as quiet as possible. We can't risk your roar giving away our position_, said Murtagh.

Thorn growled in acknowledgement. Immediately after that, Murtagh drew energy from the eldunarya and cast the healing spell. Only a hiss of pain could be heard from Thorn as the wounds were quickly mended.

After finishing the spell, Murtagh turned his attention towards Thorn's tail. That was another thing which greatly concerned him, yet he could do nothing about it. Galbatorix briefly explained him the healing spells and mentioned little about replacing a lost arm or any part of a human's body, invoking the excuse that the spells were too dangerous and wasted too much energy to be reliable.

Lost in his musings, Murtagh did not notice that Thorn slowly lifted his body off the ground and brought his snout close to his face, letting his feelings of appreciation flow across their bond, _I am grateful that you took care of that pestering wound, Murtagh, but you know how much I dislike when you use the energy of my enslaved brethren._

Murtagh rubbed thorn's snout affectionately, _I know, but I prefer to use them rather than see you suffer._

Thorn hummed in delight at the pleasant, delicate touch of his snout.

Murtagh leaned his head against Thorn's snout, the warm breath ruffling his hair with each exhalation. The short moment of relaxation came to an end as Thorn quickly retracted his snout, growling fiercely.

Jumping back at the sudden disturbance, Murtagh's eyes fixed themselves on the source of the disturbance, which was an armored elf. His bow was aimed straight at Thorn, and the tense bowstring was ready to release the arrow upon the chosen target.

"Vindr Skolir!" shouted Murtagh with alacrity. In the next moment, a strong current that brushed away anything in its path air surrounded him. Murtagh quickly muttered another spell to protect himself against the circular wind and ran towards the elf with great speed. The elf, which lost his bow due to the powerful cyclone that had been created quickly, moved his hand towards the sword which rested at its hip.

Murtagh was faster, however, as he planted his sword through the elf's chest. A sickly cough escaped his enemy as his eyes closed, his body falling limp towards the ground.

_Curses, they found us already_, thought Murtagh, picking the elf's bow from the ground and the quicker which was placed on the elf's back.

Murtagh ran towards Thorn, who bended his body slightly and extended his wings in expectance of his Rider. _I am not sure how high or for how long I will be able to fly with the little strength I have, little one,_ said Thorn.

_Do not worry about it, for I will use my bow and my spells to protect you_, answered Murtagh as he got onto the saddle

A few silent whispers followed by quiet footsteps could be heard somewhere nearby. Recognizing what it was, Thorn quickly alerted his Rider_, there are more elves coming our way. I can smell at least three different scents, even if the foul smell of death permeates this city._

Murtagh quickly dismounted and drew his bow, _I know, Thorn, but let me handle them. I don't want you to exhaust yourself more than you already are._

Thorn growled threateningly, _I will not stay away like a wounded beast when there is a strong chance that these elves might overpower you_.

_You can assist me if you wish, Thorn, but do not engage them directly_, finished Murtagh, readying his bow.

Soon enough, three elves appeared from between the shadow of the buildings. Two of them were male, each carrying a single sword in their hands. The other one, which was a female, was holding a bow and also had a small dagger which rested at her hip.

"Elves, I have no quarrels with you. Allow me passage and I give you my word as a Rider that I will not hurt anyone after my departure," spoke Murtagh quickly, hoping for an easier way to escape.

The female took a step forward," We saw what you did, Shur'tugal. You ended the life of the last Rider of Old as easily as you would kill a simple soldier," she said on a serious voice which did not betray any hint of her feelings, same as her impassive face.

"That was not what I wanted, elf, for I had no choice over my action the moment Galbatorix uttered my true name. He is the one to blame for what happened, for it was he who killed the Rider."

"Do not taint me with your lies, traitor. It was your blade that ended Oromis and the fangs of your dragon that killed Glaedr."

_Does she think that Thorn did it?_ Murtagh asked himself before looking back at the elf, frowning.

"I do not try to deceive you. It was Galbatorix who assumed control of my body and killed the Rider," he said in the ancient language.

_I will have a difficult time defeating them should they attack, _thought Murtagh, analyzing each elf with his eyes should it come to the worse.

"I do not care what you convinced yourself to think, for you bear the same guilt as that snake-tongue killer. Prepare to meet your end!" she said, readying her bow.

_Just as I expected,_ thought Murtagh, bringing his bow up and firing the arrow that was prepared with great speed. The elves barely had time to react and the arrow reached its target, but it bounced off harmlessly inches away from the female's neck.

Murtagh quickly drew Zar'roc as the two swordsmen ran past their leader, engaging Murtagh in a sword fight. Their blades moved with incredible alacrity and skill, and Murtagh was forced to back off constantly to avoid being hit by the deadly blades.

An elf made a quick slash at Murtagh's shoulder and the other one made a similar slash at his head. Murtagh leaned his body, avoiding the two blades which met Zar'roc as they clashed once again.

Little to no offensive hits came from Murtagh who was pushed heavily into defensive. The glimmering blade passed inches away from his throat as he gracefully bended his body, only to be intercepted by another slash to his torso. Murtagh brought his sword upwards and jumped back, extending his hand.

"Empowered wind-" suddenly, an arrow was about to hit him straight in his heart until it bounced off harmlessly at the impact with an invisible force. The female prepared another arrow and the two males moved forward, attempting another tactic. While one of them was keeping Murtagh busy with powerful, yet quick slashes, the other one moved past him, searching for whatever opening he could find in his blind spot.

Realizing what was about to happen, Murtagh quickly rolled on the ground and prepared an arrow.

"Brisingr!" he shouted, coating the arrow's tip with a whirling fire. Releasing the bowstring, the arrow went straight towards the two elves, exploding in a brilliant spec of orange flames.

Murtagh readied his sword and moved to finish them off when a few words he knew very well were whispered upon the winds.

An invisible force coalesced out of thin air and impacted with his body, drawing the breath out of his lungs. Murtagh's body fell onto the stone covered ground as the powerful force that pushed him subsided.

Murtagh groaned in pain as he slowly recovered. Lifting his body off the ground, he could see the two elves moving towards Thorn, who expelled a torrent of blazing fire in an attempt to get rid of his attackers. The female did not stay idle as she fired arrow after arrow at the red dragon, which made Murtagh's blood boil with anger.

Drawing even more energy from the Eldunaria, Murtagh quickly muttered a spell to delay the two elves, but it was futile as their wards deflected it.

Switching Zar'roc to his left hand, Murtagh slowly lifted his right hand as he began to speak in the language of power. His gedwey ignasia shortly began to glow red, and soon the spell he uttered took form. Violent, whistling winds which passed by Murtagh's ears temporary coalesced into a single point. Encasing all the energy and the power of the wind in a small space created with his magic, Murtagh launched the ethereal projectile at the unsuspecting female.

The force of the wind brushed the dust off the stone pavement as it made its way towards the elf, unleashing its powers in a circular blast of wind energy that exploded at the impact, distorting the somewhat still atmosphere with its booming sound. Only a faint scream could be heard from the elf before she was violently pushed into a building, a sickening crunching thud announcing her demise.

Smiling in contentment, Murtagh gripped Zar'roc with his right hand and ran towards the two elves that stopped their attacks and looked at the broken form of their comrade with disbelief.

_Little one, it would be better to avoid unnecessary killing. These elves, although aggressive towards us, did not attack me like they would want to take my life, even if they are probably mad with grief because of our actions, _spoke Thorn as he looked at Murtagh with his brilliant ruby eyes.

_We did not kill them, Thorn_, sighed Murtagh.

"I'd suggest you to leave if you don't want to share her fate," said Murtagh, casting a quick glance at Thorn. Surprisingly, the red dragon acquired no extra injuries as no arrows could be seen piercing through his protective red scales.

The two elves looked at each other like they could not believe Murtagh's words.

"Wait," said Murtagh. The two elves looked towards him.

"I want to know why you did not attack Thorn with the true extent of your abilities. I know very well the amplitude of your powers and you could easily kill my dragon in his weakened state."

Thorn growled fiercely, summoning the attention of the two elves that drew back slightly.

Murtagh ignored him, eyeing the two elves expectantly.

They spoke among themselves for a couple of moments before one took a few steps forward," You may have committed terrible crimes such as killing Oromis and Glaedr, Shur'tugal, but we could not bring ourselves as low as to kill Thorn. He is one of the few remaining dragons in this land, and if we let our petty conflicts cloud our judgments, then their race might never again flourish, and our world will be a different place."

The other elf moved forward as well," The rest of our people may not understand this or receive your heinous acts well as long as you remain in Galbatorix's service, but know that some of us do not want to see you dead, son of Morzan," the elf concluded.

"Your words are wise as well as your way of thinking. Now go, go before others will come," said Murtagh as the shouts of battle seemed to get closer.

The two elves bowed and quickly ran between the buildings, disappearing in the shadows.

_You made the right decision. Murtagh, for these elves will help us greatl__y once we change our true names, _said Thorn as he moved towards Murtagh, nuzzling him with his snout.

_I could not refuse you so easily, could I?_ replied Murtagh as he stroke his snout with his left hand.

"… and you let him go away so easily?..."

"…does not want to…against his will. You must understand that."

"No! I will definitely not understand that. He killed our masters and made a mockery out of the name of a Rider, just like the king. He brings shame to us all bear the name of a Rider and he does certainly not deserve the chance to live!"

Murtagh recognized one of the voices as belonging to one of the two elves he spoke with earlier, but the third voice, which was angrier and more commanding, belonged to an unknown elf.

_Murtagh, quickly, let us fly away before they arrive here_, growled Thorn as he lowered his body in a crouch.

_No, they will be able to attack us before we are able to depart. If I could hear their voices, then they are just behind these buildings,_ said Murtagh, moving over to one of Thorn's saddlebags.

_I cannot sense any scents nearby. They must be using magic to camouflage their presence. It is futile to fight as long as we do not know their numbers__._

Thorn failed to convince his Rider as Murtagh rummaged through the pack with his left hand, then pulled out a brown colored eldunari as large as his palm, _then we must finish them all at once before they manage to strike first._

Thorn growled indignantly and pushed Murtagh with his snout_, you know not what you are speaking of. There is a reason why they decided to mask their arrival, Murtagh, and we waste precious time in squabbling over this useless matter._

Murtagh looked briefly at the eldunari. It was a simple object, and one could confuse it with a crystal ball with ease, but only few knew what this really was. Inside rested the soul of a deceased dragon, one that was bound to Galbatorix's will and abused endlessly for the energy it provided. For the dragon inside there was no escape and no possibility to break free until its eldunari would either be freed or shattered.

A memory of Murtagh quickly flashed before his eyes as the Rider scowled, his eyes still looking at the eldunari.

* * *

_The creation of a shade begins when the spirits of the ones who perished take control of a living host. This happens when a magic user recklessly tries to subdue powerful spirits to his will by thinking that their energy can be easily wielded. But they are wrong… they are so wrong, Murtagh. Spirits are more powerful than you can even imagine, and breaking and subduing them to your will is no easy accomplishment. That is why a man possessed by spirits, a shade, loses its previous identity. There is no longer that person who is in control of its body, but the multitude of spirits that dwell in its flesh._

_However, spirits do not always need a human body to take residence in. Once summoned, they will either pass into the void or remain in our world, roaming around helplessly. _

_But spirits can also be procured from a living host. By having an ample knowledge of magic that dwells far further than what the scared, pitiful elves refuse to understand, one can sever a target's soul from its body. Unless you know exactly the spells needed in order to make use of its energy, such magic might weaken you greatly and offer no benefits in return._

_I have been experimenting with spirits, Murtagh, for their energy is almost as valuable as that of an eldunari, but I still cannot contain them long enough to harvest that energy. As long as there is a consciousness more powerful than them, they will try to assume control over it, and that makes them too dangerous to try and subdue them to your will._

_Still, I have found a way to contain them without having to bind them to my will. The eldunari of a dragon is a special object that still has many undiscovered properties. It is not known how it generates its energy or how the consciousness of a dragon can reside in this object once its body perishes. It is also notoriously hard to break into their minds if they avoid lending you their energy, for their souls remain as strong as ever._

_It is only because that power that an eldunari can resist, although for a short period of time, against an overwhelming amount of spirits that would try to control it. After that, it is rendered useless. I do not know the cause of it precisely, but if you try to infuse an eldunari with living spirits, it will shatter. It may be the raw power that breaks it, or the strange nature of this combination, but even one spirit is enough to break an eldunari. Perhaps it is the nature of this object to preserve a dragon's soul only._

_

* * *

_

_Murtagh, you can't possibly,_ Thorn tried to break his musings, but Murtagh threw him a scornful look.

_I know what I have to do, yet…_ Murtagh thought, ignoring Thorn's previous remark. _There is a way…_

A feeling of dream swayed from Thorn, who added worriedly, _that is beyond your capabilities, and no matter who we fight with, such magic should never be unleashed._

Murtagh bit his lip, drawing blood, _You cannot persuade me this time, Thorn_. _I will use the spell Galbatorix has taught me. It is the only way for us to escape from here alive, and I said it already that no stranger's life is more important than yours._

Thorn bared his teeth, placing his snout inches away from Murtagh's face, _do you know what that spell implies or the cost it will take after it is used? That is dangerous magic you are speaking about, Murtagh, and I have the feeling that Galbatorix did not tell you everything there is to know about it, _said Thorn with conviction, desperately trying to persuade his Rider

_I cannot fight with all o__f them at once, Thorn. I'm sorry, but I have no other option. I must do this, for both of your sake and mine, _said Murtagh as he gently patted the side of Thorn's snout, whose snarl lessened considerably.

_I will not forget about this, Murtagh, and when the time will come I will ask for something in exchange,_growled Thorn as he raised his head.

_I have no objections against that. Now, get ready and defend my mind while I begin the first stages of the spell._


	12. Dark Magic

Murtagh closed his eyes and opened his mind to his surroundings. Immediately in the vicinity he could spot the mind of eight elves that formed a small group, hiding behind a building nearby. In the opposite direction, there were two other elves which took position on the rooftops, ready to fire their arrows at their enemy. There was one other elf that slowly approached from the side, making use of the buildings to hide his presence.

Only a second passed since Murtagh opened his mind before he felt the spear-like consciousnesses of the elves trying to break through his mental defenses.

Murtagh gritted his teeth and extended his right hand, focusing his attention towards the eldunari. "I have no other choice," whispered Murtagh as he began to speak in the language of power.

"Thrysta stenr," he whispered, focusing his attention towards the key structures of a nearby building. A few of the blocks of stone of which the building was made of exploded violently, causing a loud crashing sound as the building began to collapse.

"Magic of Siran: body to mind, mind out of body," spoke Murtagh.

Nothing seemed to happen until a large scream of despair erupted all of a sudden, followed by another one, and another one as each elf fell prey to the dark enchantment that ripped their souls from their bodies. Murtagh was partially overwhelmed by the brightness of each elf's spirit, but he quickly gathered himself and extended the hand with the eldunari.

"Siphon of the ever living: merge," he commanded, and all of the elves souls were directed towards the eldunari.

The brown sphere began to glow intensely as the souls of the elves slowly merged with the dragon inside. It was an unnatural process, an abomination, yet the dark magic was not bound by such restraints.

Murtagh dropped the eldunari on the ground as the shrieking roar of a dragon could be heard inside his mind, tormenting him with its cries before it ceased as suddenly as it began.

The eldunari's glow intensified until it suddenly cracked open, dissipating all the light that surrounded it.

Murtagh gasped as he fell onto his knees, feeling that a part of him was missing. No matter how hard he tried to concentrate, he could not reach the magical reserves which hid deep into his mind.  
_  
__I-I did it…_ said Murtagh as Thorn's snout approached from the side of his head, his breath warming Murtagh's body.

_Death is no reason to celebrate, little one,_ Thorn reproached as he looked around the conspicuous area. _Now climb onto my back before other elves come._

Murtagh laid a numb arm on the warm snout of his partner and got up, running his hand along the smooth red scales until he reached the saddle. Using the little power he had left, he trudged his body upwards into the saddle where he steadied himself clumsily.

Thorn lowered his body in a crouch, spreading wings as he pushed himself off the ground, leaving visible scratches into the stone that covered the ground.

Despite the thrill of escaping such a dangerous situation, Thorn's wing beats were slow and lethargic, matching his own displeasure at the gruesome act Murtagh has just committed.

_Do you want me to lend you some energy? I can-_ Murtagh tried to say without stuttering, making his best to remain in the saddle because of his numb limbs and frail balance thanks to Thorn's deficient flight.

_NO! Bellowed Thorn, you already sacrificed the soul of a dragon for that strange spell of yours and drew energy from the others. I appreciate your concern, but I will be capable of flying with my own strength. _

Murtagh said nothing, realizing how painful was it for Thorn to accept the fact that the eldunari of a dragon, which was once a mighty beast which roamed the land was used to cause even more death. More so, such abuse as draining and torturing the souls of countless dragons was revolting as these prideful creatures once lived free, unrestrained by any bonds.

A few stray arrows coming from the elves on the battlements were aimed at Thorn when the dragon passed by the destroyed gate, but they were quickly deflected by Murtagh. With the battlements shrinking behind them, he sighed in relief and closed his eyes, falling into a contemplative state.

Thorn kept flying as straight as he could, but even so the missing part of his tail drastically affected his flying capabilities. Every time he would take a turn, even a slight one, chances were that he would unwillingly do a corkscrew or simply fail at taking the proper turn by moving too far in the respective direction. A straight flight was not an easy accomplishment as well, for the shifting air currents constantly affected the dragon's flying path. Usually, corrections like these were made instinctually, but Thorn had to struggle even more to avoid wasting unnecessary energy on correcting his flying position.

The two of them kept flying for longer than anyone could guess, yet signs of the great capital of Uru'Baen were not visible. The sun went past its highest point in the sky and started to slowly descend, indicating that the day would soon come to an end A vast area of rolling plains unfolded before Murtagh's eyes as Thorn passed over the last remaining trees of a large forest. The feeling of freedom combined with the warm, enticing rays of the sun and the dry grass which colored the ground below in shades of gold was exhilarating. Thorn released a loud roar but, much to Murtagh's surprise, it was not a roar of happiness, but of pain. The red dragon descended from the sky before Murtagh could find out what was wrong and managed to land on his feet, although not in the most elegant way.

Dry grass mixed with dirt flew into the air as Thorn skid on his feet before crashing down on his belly. Murtagh adopted a concerned look as he walked over to Thorn's head. His breathing was unusually labored, and his ruby eyes lost much of their vivid spark of life.  
_  
__Thorn, what happened?_  
_  
__My energy is almost spent, Murtagh, and my injured tail still hurts. You can not possibly know the shame and the hurt that was bestowed upon me the moment Glaedr severed that part of my tail, _said Thorn, a deep sadness being present in his voice.

Murtagh slowly stroke Thorn's neck before he gripped it with his arm, trying to encourage his partner of mind and soul, _I may not know that, but I understand your pain, and I promise I will do everything I can to help you mend your tail. _

Thorn growled softly, _Thank you Murtagh…thank you for everything you have done for me,_ he said as he closed his eyes, exhaling loudly.

Murtagh patted Thorn one more time before he slowly walked to the side of his body. The large, majestic light ruby wings came into view, but Murtagh had no more strength to keep moving. Feeling unusually tired, Murtagh dropped on the soft ground, looking at the clear blue sky before he slowly closed his eyes.


	13. An unexpected encounter

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The chill of the howling wind and low screams of terrible agony roused Murtagh from his sleep as he snapped his eyes open. A strange, darkened market square unveiled before him as he blinked a few times in confusion. The place was strangely similar to the one in Gil'ead, where he crashed alongside with Thorn and forced to kill so he could have a chance at escaping.

However, the appearances were vague for most of the buildings lay in ruins, destroyed by an unrecognizable force. Even the stone that paved the ground was damaged as chunks of rock rose from the ground, revealing the brown earth.

Murtagh slowly rose to his feet, crossing his arms near his chest to alleviate the feeling of shivering that claimed his body. And it was not only the coldness, but the strange, gloomy atmosphere that emphasized it. His eyes, widened with surprise, thoroughly inspected his surroundings. There were many questions he sought an answer to, but the fear he felt was enough to dwarf even the most insignificant one.

Suddenly, a spark of red could be visible among the ruins of a destroyed building. Murtagh frowned, walking cautiously towards it. Careful not to make any noise, he stepped silently through the fragments of wood and the debris that littered the ground. The only entrance in the large house was a small hole, but curiosity got the best of Murtagh. Bending his slim body carefully, Murtagh pushed himself through the crack. He gritted his teeth in pain as a sharp spike of wood raked his arm in the process, but he did not cease his attempts.

After he finally stuck his body through the small, jagged edged crack, Murtagh cast a quick look at his surroundings. Everything was barren and dull, the only exception being the ragged body of Thorn who lay in the middle of the room. His wings were punctured in various places, leaving large gashes and holes into the soft membrane. Multiple ruby scales were also missing where the bloody cuts and scrapes pierced past them, giving way to the soft flesh underneath. A long sword was impaled on the back of his skull, like someone planted it there with great expertise. Only a part of the blade and the handle were visible, for the other part was concealed by the layers of flesh and bone.

Murtagh screamed in agony at the disturbing sight and rushed towards the lifeless form of his partner of mind and soul.

"THORN!" he screamed, but not even the slightest noise could be heard. Murtagh cursed and shouted as loud as he could, yet nothing seemed to come out of his mouth, not even the faintest whisper. It was like he was not even opening his mouth to voice out his raging feelings.

Sparkling, wet tears started to flow from his eyes at the sight of the deceased dragon. How could Thorn perish without a sign? How could he not feel Thorn's pain when the one responsible for his demise attacked him?

Murtagh immediately found the answer to these agonizing questions when his eyes set themselves on the sword which was planted in Thorn's skull. The sword was no other than Zar'roc, the same sword he used to kill Glaedr. Strangely, it pierced Thorn's skull in the same place where Murtagh pierced Glaedr when he ended his life.

"Do you like what you see, son of Morzan?"

Murtagh suddenly turned around as a cold, feminine voice came from behind. It was not surprising after everything he recently witnessed that the one who spoke was the same female that he killed when his spell smashed her body against the tough stone of a building.

Murtagh opened his mouth to speak, to scream, to do anything that would unleash the rage and the hurt that was destroying him from the inside, but the result was the same: complete silence. Clenching his fists, Murtagh broke into a run, aiming towards the elf that was no farther than a couple of feet from him. He quickly reached her but before he could do anything else a powerful force slammed into him, sending his body tumbling across the ground.

"Pitiful. Your anger and your lust for blood are all traits that define you, son of Morzan, for you would kill without hesitation to save your own skin," said the female in the same cold tone.

Murtagh clenched his teeth and used his arms to push his body off the ground, fixing his eyes on Thorn.

"Do not look at him like that, Murtagh, for it was you who took his life. Galbatorix did not tell you, but this is one of the great consequences of the dark magic. It was you who raised your blade against him, it was you who slashed his body and it was you who brought the misery of death upon him."

A wave of burning anger like he never felt before washed over Murtagh as he stared in the cold, merciless eyes of the elf. Feeling new powers surge through him, Murtagh bolted on his legs and ran towards the elf with the intention to end her pitiful life.

"Letta," whispered the female, causing Murtagh's body to go limp in an instant. No matter how hard he forced to free himself, the strength of the spell kept him in place. Murtagh's hate filled eyes never left the elf that slowly walked towards him, a small, evil smile present on her face.

When she was only a feet away from him, she lowered her body into a crouch and pulled out a small, red glowing orb from a pouch she carried at her hip.

"It is strange, isn't it? That you wanted to be reunited with your dragon… Now I shall be the one that will offer you this chance!" said the female on a cold, hasty voice as her lips formed an evil smile, while her eyes stared maliciously at Murtagh.

Murtagh gasped in shock, but, before he could do something, anything that would free him from this accursed spell, the elf uttered a single word: "Merge!"

* * *

Murtagh woke up with a start, screaming as he did so. His intense fear traveled across the Rider's bond, waking Thorn as well as the dragon opened one vermilion eye, growling softly.

_What insect was that that pinched you, little one__? I was about to catch one of the juiciest bucks I have met in the realm of dreams._

Murtagh tried to smile at seeing his dragon in a brighter mood, but all he could sketch was a small movement of his lips, _it was not that, Thorn. I don't think I even closed my eyes properly before I found myself again in the same place we were after you crashed into that building. There were many differences between my dream and what happened, but I can still see it before my eyes. Your…your lifeless corpse, with my own sword being impaled into your head… _said Murtagh on a frail, fearful voice. He slowly unsheathed his sword, glaring at the red, glittering metal that sparkled into the sunlight.

_You should not dwell onto it too much, little one, for these nightmares are mere conjurations of your mind. Let them trouble you no further, for I will not perish that easily, _said Thorn soothingly.

Murtagh switched his gaze towards Thorn, eyeing the dragon with his dark brown eyes, _you don't understand, Thorn. In my dream, the elf… she said that it was-… it was me who killed you. That this was a consequence of the dark magic I used to… rip the souls of the elves and merge them with the eldunari._

Sensing the concern and the fear in Murtagh's voice, Thorn arched his neck and brushed his snout against Murtagh's shoulder, _No magic could have such effects on a person and alter its choices to such extent, little one. While you could use someone's true name to force it to take the life of another one that it close to said person, this is not possible with normal or dark magic._

Murtagh sketched a small smile, feeling a bit more relieved, _since when have you become so knowledgeable?_

Thorn growled in protest, _I think you forget the fact that I am a dragon, little one._

Murtagh laughed and stroke the smooth scales on Thorn's snout with his hand. No further words were exchanged between them as they both enjoyed the peaceful atmosphere and the light breeze that blew gently across the plains.

Thorn's nostrils twitched and flared as the dragon sniffed the air with interest. Murtagh paid no attention to it as he looked in the distance at the blades of dry grass which danced continuously on the breath of the wind. How he wished his life would be so peaceful, so free, so simple...

A faint flapping sound reached Murtagh's ears, but Thorn's growl was the reason for disturbing him. Turning his head around in puzzlement, Murtagh eyed his dragon that looked towards a specific point in the sky. He was about to ask him what was happening until he looked towards the same spot, noticing a small black dot approaching them.

_Is that Shruikan? What is he doing here?_ Asked Murtagh calmly, although he couldn't contain the small bit of regret at the presence of the black dragon.

_I cannot give you the answer for that, little one, but I am glad that he__ somehow found us, _said Thorn with excitement as he rose up from his position. Murtagh almost fell on his back as the comfortable surface he was leaning against suddenly moved, causing him to lose his balance.

With a loud roar, Thorn leaped into the air, flapping his mighty wings as hard as he could, raising a cloud of dust and dead grass behind him.

Murtagh shut his eyes in annoyance, _I don't know why he always does that. It's not like Shruikan will bite him or something if he waits a couple of moments,_, thought Murtagh with a bit of bitterness for his partner's departure. Then, he dropped on the ground, running his hand along the frail blades of dried grass as his eyes looked at the clear blue sky.

* * *

Thorn struggled with his flying path as soon as he ascended to the sky by flapping his wings a few times. The takeoff, which was the hardest and most energy consuming part of the flying process was the most difficult to overcome. Due to his short tail length, Thorn was unable to keep his trajectory straight while he gained altitude, wobbling in random directions as his tail failed to provide the proper balance.

Despite the early problems he experienced, Thorn successfully managed to gain the necessary altitude where the air currents would provide a much needed advantage. Fixing his eyes on Shruikan's form, which was getting clearer with each wing beat, Thorn let out a load roar and rushed to meet his master.

Shruikan released his own roar, which was slightly deeper and more powerful than Thorn's. Then, he quickly angled downwards, pulling his body into a steep dive as he descended at a frightening speed. Thorn flapped his wings against the air currents, reducing a part of his speed while he eyed the black dragon with interest. Shruikan beat his powerful wings a few times, performing a large loop that exponentially decreased his speed before he touched the ground with his paws. It was not one of his best landings as he skidded for a bit on the grassy ground due to the momentum of the landing.

Thorn growled, slightly impressed by the unusual landing performed by his master, but his positive feelings were partially dwarfed by the injuries inflicted by the golden dragon, both physically and mentally. With a shook of his head, Thorn dismissed his inner struggling and descended from the sky. Beating his wings furiously to decrease his speed when he neared the golden-grassy-ground, Thorn growled in frustration as the fragile balance was broken. Feeling unusually unsteady, Thorn desperately tried to keep his body straight, but to no avail. With a loud roar, the red dragon met the soft grassy soil, sending particles of dirt and grass into the air as he landed on his side.

His crimson-red-wing stung with pain due to the friction of the ground as his body was dragged across the grassy field for a short distance before stopping. A curtain of dust and torn grass blanketed the air around him, the particles of earth irritating his eyes. Blinking rapidly to alleviate the unpleasant sensation, Thorn growled softly and sluggishly craned his neck to inspect his body.

He barely had the chance to spot the stump of his once long tail as a large, black figure neared his position. After he reached the ruby dragon, Shruikan growled softly and lowered his head to inspect Thorn's tail.

Thorn could feel Shruikan's warm breath upon the end of his tail as the black dragon sniffed at the bothersome wound.

_What happened, little Thorn? Who did this to your tail?__ Asked Shruikan, gently poking the wound with his snout._

_It was… a golden dragon, along with his Rider. They appeared out of nowhere and we had no choice but…to fight_, snarled Thorn as something touched the exposed stump of his tail, sending sharp pain across his spine.

Shruikan growled softly, retracting his snout from the wound. Thorn was about to turn his head and check on his position when Shruikan quickly moved besides Thorn, laying his large, black wing upon his body. Thorn growled softly at the comfortable warmness provided by the large bulk of the black dragon. Thorn was surprised when a warm shiver snaked its way across his body as something moist and warm brushed against the lower parts of his neck.

_There is no doubt that the pair you encountered was Oromis and Glaedr, the elders of the order of the Riders. They somehow escaped from the vile tortures of Kialandi and Formora, but not without paying a price__…_trailed the voice of Shruikan before stopping for a short while. Thorn growled softly at the interruption of the comfortable licking sensation and prepared to raise his head, but Shruikan quickly pressed him down with his own snout_. _

_It__ is unnecessary to dwell onto these matters after all you have been through, young one_. _There are but a few who could live a life like yours and go through so much pain as you did_, added Shruikan soothingly as he resumed his treatment. Thorn hummed in pleasure at the warm, relaxing sensation which seemed to alleviate all of his troubled thoughts. Few where the moments were he felt so good, so cared for. While Murtagh deeply cared about Thorn and did everything in his power to be there for him, helping him in his time of need, the bond he shared with Shruikan was different than the one formed with Murtagh the moment when the Rider touched Thorn's egg. Finding himself enticed by the soft grip of the dream world, Thorn slowly closed his eyelids.

**I have no idea when the next update is coming, and I'm kind of busy until Christmas.**


	14. Past and Present

**Ok, I wanted to continue with Eragon's journey, but then I kind of cheated and continued with a Thorn/Shruikan chapter. I don't like this site because of the primitive posting system, so I will just answer to your reviews here. From now on, all the Thank you comments, responses, and everything else will be answered in bold before a chapter. You just review and you will get to see your name over here! :o**

**Eragonnerd- Your message kind of helped me, and I'm glad you think so highly of my fanfic. I too hope that I will get more reviews, but eh, I can't force people to post you know... What part did you not understand? Tell me, and I will try to clear it up. This chapter has more cute moments, so read it and tell me what ya think :)**

**Commentaholic- Oh yea, even if it was just a fictive death. You are quite perceptive, for realizing that the nightmare was related to the dark magic. Some theories I received on the other forum were so crazy that they completely forgot about the fact that I will not, under any circumstance, introduce a ground breaking change so early. I don't see why you think that Murtagh is an idiot just for killing an enemy. That means Saphira is an idiot for disliking Thorn, as well as Eragon for hating Galby. Just because each side of this conflict has certain principles, it does not mean that they are idiots. Glaedr was a formidable enemy, but he had to be put down as any other threat that might have endangered Thorn. Murtagh had no idea who Glaedr and Oromis was, so it's kind of natural for him not to care. They weren't THAT popular anyway.**

**DarkShruikan- From your name, I can see that you are a fan of him. I'm so happy to finally find someone who actually like Shruikan and doesn't think that he is acting very weird. Everybody seems to assume that he is a twisted, broken dragon when there is no reference to it.**

**RestrainedFreedom- That's what I am trying to do! Corrupting you into liking Shruikan and Thorn :D Enjoy this chapter, it has more of what you seek in it.**

* * *

A memory of the past materialized itself into Thorn's dream, reviving the moments of his life as a young hatchling.

_It was when he was almost a month of age that Thorn first encountered Shruikan. Despite the multiple protests coming from Murtagh, Galbatorix insisted that he should broaden his skills through an instruction provided by Shruikan, the black, ominous dragon that was little known throughout the kingdom. _

_Although different rumors, some more accurate than the rest, circulated amongst the various citizens of Uru'Baen, the capital city of the Empire, none actually dared to put an end to the ephemeral ramblings and go in search of the truth. _

_The king's servants, which had close access to what was going on inside the castle, were the main source of these information leaks. Although Shruikan seldom spent his time inside the large chambers which formed the dragon hold, many of the servants were curious to see one of the last surviving dragons with their own eyes. However, mere curiosity was not the only motivation that pushed them forward, fueling their sinister curiosity._

_Those few good story tellers were known and respected, something each of the lesser servants craved for. In spite of the veiled uncertainty, many of them were talking among themselves with fear and enmity about the black beast of Galbatorix, the dragon who was forced to shed the blood of his own kin at the king's command. None dared to incur his wrath, not even for the truth itself._

_It was said that his sanity was all but shattered by the heinous acts he was forced to commit, and that his mind had gradually been broken by his rising insanity. Murtagh heard many of these rumors and begged Galbatorix not to do something that would risk Thorn's life, but his words held no power. Unconvinced by his pathetic pleas, Galbatorix ordered that Thorn was to be brought into a large chamber and forced to wait._

_Four of the king's servants shortly rushed into Murtagh's room, ready to subdue him by any means necessary. With his partner of mind and soul gone, there was little he could do to fend off his aggressors._

_The small dragon bit and clawed at anything and anyone that approached him, squeaking defiantly at the humans which prepared the ropes and the net they had in their hands. After the short squabble, a small net sealed Thorn's fate as he was finally captured by the humans and forced to submit. The servants carried the agitated, noisy hatchling to the dragon hold before they released the net and the ropes which bound his legs, leaving him all alone._

_Thorn's heart was beating frantically as the hatchling found itself trapped in a large, dark chamber where the light went no further than a short distance from the small windows. Feeling apprehensive and scared, Thorn slowly got up on his legs, inspecting the strange place with his fearful vermilion eyes._

_Nothing seemed to stir in the dark, empty chamber until a soft, deep growl could be heard from one of the dark corners of the room. Thorn squeaked in panic once before his eyes turned towards the source of the noise, inspecting it reluctantly. Another loud squeak escaped him when a slight thud mixed with a clicking noise broke the silence, an unpleasant screech of claws sliding across smooth marble vanishing as fast as it came. Something moved through the permeating darkness. His instincts told him so. _

_Afraid of the unknown, Thorn expressed his fright and loneliness through a series of squeaks and yelps. Out of a sudden, a large paw covered in midnight black scales pierced the darkness, the rays of the sun reflecting off its surface. Panicking, Thorn backed away until he could go no further. A growl of fear escaped the helpless hatchling, which coiled its body defensively near one of the few sources of light, a window. Placing his snout close to his hind leg, tail wrapped along his body, Thorn could do nothing but wait._

_The clicking sound of claws on the tough stone became more clear and prominent as the dark creature approached Thorn's location. Feeling his space being invaded, the young hatchling raised his head, squeaking in terror as his eyes noticed a large, dark bulk not far away from him. The creature was covered in black scales which shined with a dark, pleasant hue when the light from the outside reflected on them. Its size was impressive as well as intimidating, and the fiery amber eyes which stared at Thorn made the hatchling even more afraid for his safety. Panicking at the large, unknown creature which seemed to share the same features as he did, Thorn began to squeak, growl, doing everything he could that would help in warding this fearsome beast off._

_With a quick move, the black dragon covered the short distance between them and brought his snout down, sniffing him inquisitively. Thorn recoiled and placed his head under his small wings to protect himself against the vortex of air created by the twitching nostrils of the large dragon. The unpleasant situation soon came to a stop when this dark scaled male stopped from his inquiring sniffs and lowered his body, placing his large head on the ground._

_Poking through his wing curiously with his little head, Thorn eyed the dragon suspiciously, different thoughts passing through his young mind. Time passed and the two of them did nothing but to stare at each other. The black scales which appeared to glitter under the soft caress of the light attracted Thorn's attention, who looked at them curiously._

_Feeling his interest strangely pinched by the black creature, Thorn reluctantly got up onto his legs and advanced towards it with slow steps. The hatchling went around the large snout and inspected the side of its head while his nostrils twitched as he sniffed inquisitively. With a quick bite, Thorn grabbed one of the scales with his sharp teeth and pulled back, attempting to yank it off. Despite the force that pulled it, the tough scale remained as inert as ever._

_Squeaking in protest, Thorn let go and pawed at it a few times before he lifted his head. A particular ivory formation which rose from the base of the creature's skull yet again summoned Thorn's interest. Its smooth curves, the weird shape and the length only added to Thorn's growing curiosity. Rising onto his hind legs, the hatchling scratched the tough black scales with his front legs and tried to use brute force to pull himself up. The meager attempts in reaching his point of interest failed when Thorn clumsily lost his balance and fell on his back, squeaking in protest. _

_The black dragon lifted its massive head, eyeing the small hatchling who struggled to get onto his feet. Thorn managed to roll over and stand on all fours when he yet again met the large snout of the creature. Thorn flinched, drawing his head back a little in a defensive gesture. However, fear alone could not justify his insatiable curiosity, and what happened next could only be blamed on his fragile age. _

_Walking towards the dragon's snout with slow steps, Thorn quickly jumped on it, scrambling onto his feet to reach what interested him the most: the large, raising ivory formations. With the help of his sharp claws which slid between the tough scales which covered the black dragon's snout, Thorn managed to reach its prize. Arching his neck, the hatchling bit at the base of the large horn. Then, he started in gnawing on it without much success. A deep rumbling sound disturbed the silence, and Thorn could feel the slippery, scaly surface moving as he lost his balance and fell again, this time on his side._

_Thorn let out a light growl of pain at the contact with the tough surface of the stone floor, but he quickly corrected his position by rolling over so he could stand on his belly. He spent a few moments on the ground, trying to understand what just happened. _

_The thoughts in his little mind were disturbed when the black dragon closed in with his snout, gently pushing the hatchling onto his side._

_Thorn yelped in surprise, taken aback by this strange yet almost friendly contact between them. He was not sure what was about to happen when a pink, wet object darted out of the black dragon's mouth, brushing against Thorn's body as it ran along his belly and neck. At first, Thorn growled in protest, but after a couple more strokes of the black dragon's tongue Thorn relaxed completely. The sensation was so pleasant, so calming, and in that moment Thorn instinctively knew that this creature had no intentions to harm him. Letting go of all the negative emotions and stress that gathered inside him ever since he got here, Thorn relaxed completely under the caring display of the black dragon._

_That was the first time when Thorn saw the feared black dragon with his eyes, but this small contact between them was also the most important one. Although he was still a young hatchling, Thorn knew that the black dragon had no intentions to harm or do anything that would hurt him. As time passed, the small red hatchling slowly grew, same as his bond with Shruikan. Soon after he started to fully trust Shruikan, Thorn began to spend more time with him, mainly playing as he was yet too young to speak mentally. The older dragon was always patient and gentle with Thorn, even when he started to become quite the pest by annoying Shruikan with his constant squeaks, bites and scratches._

_These interactions held an important role after Thorn was old enough to speak mentally. Although spending time with his Rider was something he could not deny, Thorn could not help but yearn for the interactions with someone of his own kin. It brought great joy to Thorn whenever he had the chance to meet with the black dragon. _

_Even though Galbatorix often interfered into the affairs of the dragons, ordering Shruikan to teach Thorn different moves and advices related to combat, Thorn did not regret spending his time this way. Under Shruikan's training, he learned a great deal of things about the ways of the dragon, including making use of his wings to gracefully fly above the land._

_As time passed, so did Thorn's knowledge increased. The training he received under Shruikan proved to be very useful whenever Galbatorix sent Murtagh on scouting missions Although Shruikan was Thorn's mentor, he did not look at him in such way, for they were even closer than that. Having met Shruikan at such a fragile age, Thorn started to look up at Shruikan as a fatherly figure, for the bond they shared and the affection they showed to each other went deeper than a mentor-student one._

_Thoughts about Shruikan lessened Thorn's displeasure whenever he was scolded by the king or sent into missions. Shruikan was the one that understood him better than anyone, even more than Murtagh, for only one who knew the true pain of the slavery and spent his life in doing someone's bidding could fully understand how Thorn felt. _

* * *

A slight nudge coming from under his stretched wing woke Thorn from his short slumber. Blinking a few times in confusion, the dragon snorted and turned his head around lazily. The culprit behind this disturbance was Shruikan, who pushed his snout under the protective membrane of Thorn's wing. The ruby dragon blinked once, slightly confused about what was happening. His senses were still numbed with fatigue and his eyelids felt heavy as Thorn wished nothing more than to continue his sleep undisturbed.

Thorn growled weakly, placing his head under his wing as he coiled into a comfortable sleeping position, inches away from Shruikan's snout. At the moment, playing or elucidating the reason behind Shruikan's actions was the least Thorn wanted as he was overwhelmed by a wave of tiredness. He only managed to close his eyes briefly before another nudge, this time on the back of his neck summoned his attention. With a noticeable hiss of irritation, Thorn flapped his right wing a few times to ward off the pestering thing that approached his neck.

A low, deep growl rippled from Shruikan's throat, _I apologize for disturbing you, young one, but I caught the scents of several elves while I made my way here. I do not know if they will find us or not, but I prefer not to take that risk_, said Shruikan, nuzzling the length of Thorn's neck soothingly to alleviate any feelings of spite Thorn might have felt in that moment.

Thorn growled in protest and lifted his head, turning it around so he could face Shruikan, _two elves that attacked us in Feinster were reluctant to kill me. Murtagh spared them, and in turn they confessed that the death of a dragon must be prevented at any cost, no matter where your allegiance lies_, he finished quickly, hoping that this small piece of information was enough to extinguish Shruikan's worries.

The black dragon was slightly convinced as he stood up on his legs, unfolding his magnificent black wings as he did so.  
_  
__You cannot take their word for granted, Thorn, for the elves are masters of trickery, even when they speak in the ancient language. That aside, most of them are struck with grief and rage after the demise of their Rider, and there is a strong chance that they will let the thoughts of revenge overwhelm them._

Thorn lowered his head, musing about his master's words. The memory of Glaedr savagely sinking his teeth into his left hind leg, then severing the last three feet of his tail mercilessly was still vivid into his mind. Feeling only negative feelings rising inside him the more he thought about the battle with the golden dragon, Thorn focused his thoughts on the two elves that he had spared.

_Shruikan is right. These pointed-ears cannot be fully trusted, not all of them at least. The Rider and his dragon were old and wise, but their feelings of vengeance against Galbatorix consumed them. If it were not for Murtagh's intervention, I would have passed into the void._

The ruby dragon was roused from his thoughts as Shruikan moved beside him, brushing his head against the side of his body.

Lifting his wing, Thorn growled in delight, pleased by the attention he received, _There is no need to face them on the battlefield. We can avoid killing them as long as we fly away from this place. It does not matter how fast a ground creature is, it cannot compete with the speed of a dragon,_ Thorn said eagerly.

Shruikan growled softly, an undying fervor to protect the ones he cared about igniting itself in his amber eyes, _I have seen how you struggle when flying, hatchling. I will not put your life at risk only to spare the life of other insignificant beings, no matter what race they belong to. As long as they are not dragons, I do not care what kind of blood I must shed to protect you_, finished Shruikan abruptly, moving away from Thorn. He remained limp, no other thoughts crossing his mind as he was transfixed by the length Shruikan would go to protect him from those that would raise their weapons against him.

Thorn watched how Shruikan moved a short distance away from him so he could extend his mighty wings to their full span.

_We will need Murtagh's help to bring them down quick. Remain here, for I will return as fast as my wings would allow,_ growled Shruikan, gazing at Thorn before he lowered into the specific crouch that would allow him to take to the skies.

Thorn did not even have the time to rise from his position as Shruikan leaped into the air, flapping his mighty wings as hard as he could. A storm of dust and dry grass was created in his wake as his powerful wings sent down mighty gusts.

Thorn looked at the departing form of Shruikan with both pride and admiration, impressed by his willingness to protect him, no matter the cost.

_Shruikan has endured so much more than I did, yet his mind does not seem stained by the memories of the blood he was forced to shed at Galbatorix's command. Such a dragon deserves much more than to be hated by so many, humans and elves alike, for what he did in the past._

_**So, this is it**__**. Comment, critique, any opinion is welcomed. The next chapter will return to Eragon, as well as my efforts to do Arya and Eragon stuff...**  
_


	15. The Journey Begins

**Behold, the next chapter!**

After they exited Feinster, Eragon and Arya walked towards the grove where Saphira used to linger. Their steps were slow, almost forced in Eragon's case. Only now was he starting to realize that Saphira might not like spontaneous decision, especially when they involved both him, her and the others. Even if she knew Arya better than most elves ever did, Angela was still a stranger, one that could derange their intimacy.

"I don't like it when events unfold without my consent," Eragon complained on a low voice, unable to retain it inside his own head. Arya looked at him, but said nothing.

"I think fate has a certain irony." He suddenly paused, looking at the star sprinkled sky before resuming, "I never actually had a choice before, and now it is no different."

"Cast your worries aside, Eragon," Arya intervened, her calm voice soothing him a little. "Destiny has a tendency to do that, but not everything that happens is for the worst."

Eragon was somewhat surprise by how positive she was. Because of her past, one would think that Arya couldn't be capable of accepting the gossamer thread which symbolized happiness during a war.

As if she noticed his bewilderment, Arya said with uncertainty, "I don't know how to put it but…" her voice trailed off for a moment during which Eragon looked at her shyly, words completely vanishing from his mind.

"I learned a couple of things from you," she said hastily, gazing into his eyes for a brief moment before looking elsewhere. If her previous remark surprised him, now her affirmation totally shocked him. He knew that a subtle change transpired when she came for him after killing the Ra'zacs, but at that time, he wasn't quite sure why it was so. However, now it was obvious: It was the power of friendship that changed her, gave her hope to look towards a brighter future. Still, he had mixed feelings about what she said, and it was this surge of emotions that caused blood to rush to his cheeks.

"I'm glad…to hear that," Eragon managed to say weakly, almost an inaudible whisper. He had no idea if Arya heard him, and maybe it was this fact that pushed him to say louder, "I'm glad to be your friend, and to have you here, with me."

"I'm glad too, Eragon," she said curtly, running a hand across her hair to remove a loose raven black lock that covered her face. They both exchanged quick glances without any words being said, a most unnerving experience for Eragon, and one that he was not quite familiar with.

Shortly after this strange yet pleasant moment, the trees began to clear, revealing the jewel of the forest: Saphira. But she was not alone. A black cat pounced and leaped at her tail with great agility, biting and trying to catch the swishing scaly tip. If it was a mere cat, its fate would be worse than that of a roasted boar.

Angela, who sat on Saphira's back, jumped on the ground and patted Saphira on her neck before she greeted them.

"I have never ridden a blue dragon before," she said with enthusiasm before she turned around as quickly as she came. _Why does the color matter?_ Eragon thought and walked towards Saphira, who stared at him intently.

_If it wasn't for our unexpected guests, I would lick you until the fabric of your clothes is no more, _she said on a slightly angry voice. It was too late for Eragon to scold himself for not telling Saphira about his plans earlier, but his only excuse was she went hunting and he couldn't contact her.

_Saphira, it would have happened sooner or later. If there was a time when we need to make fast decisions, then this is it, _said Eragon, hugging her snout.

_If my hunt would have been unproductive, you would be in a worse position, _Saphira growled with indignation before craning her neck, staring at the troublesome werecat that never ceased playing with her tail. Suddenly, Solembum ceased his relentless attacks and dashed towards Angela, who was lying on the ground, staring at an infinitely interesting acorn.

Eragon almost shuddered in surprise when he saw Arya sitting next to him with the corner of his eyes, her hand moving across Saphira's jaw. A hum of delight came from the blue dragoness whose eyes closed, enjoying the attention she was receiving.

"You are fortunate for being gifted with such a good and loyal friend," Arya whispered to him while she continued to stroke her smooth scales.

_You have friends of your own, Emerald-eyes, and they in turn have you._ Arya smiled and raised her head, looking at Saphira intently. After a short moment, she lifted her wing and Arya moved towards the warm confines of her new shelter.

_Go, or sleep in the cold, like she will, _Saphira said, pointing with her snout towards Angela, who was oblivious to anything that excluded her and the acorn.

_I already talked with her, so there is no point in doing the same._

Eragon nodded absently and trudged his body under her wing. While he didn't mind sleeping so close to Arya, he had a few difficulties in finding a good spot to lay his tired body without disturbing the elf who had already cuddled next to Saphira's ribs. With Arya occupying his favorite sleeping spot, Eragon moved towards her flank and lay down near her paw, resting his head on her clawed foot. He tried to process some of the events which required his attention, but his mind was quickly overwhelmed with tiredness, and he fell asleep before even bidding Saphira a pleasant slumber.

"Sprout like a mushroom after the rain, Eragon!" Angela laughed and distanced from him quickly, her feet swishing through the grass. A groan of displeasure came from the tired Rider who could just not get up. His drowsy eyes felt heavy like lead and the effort needed to open them was not worth it.

Because of his numb mind, the reason behind this rude awakening was unknown, especially when sleep was sweeter than ever.

_It is either on my back or in my claws,_ Saphira cut in. Her comment acted like a bucket of frozen water poured onto a cat by a cruel man. Wobbling onto his legs, Eragon brushed his eyes lazily and blinked several times, trying to adjust to the light that penetrated the clear blue sky.

Birds joyfully chirped as they chased each other in winding flying contests, using every obstacle, such as tree branches, to their advantage. The blazing sun made Eragon wrinkle his face when his eyes met it. He did not expect it to be that high in the sky.

His stomach rumbled, but there was nothing he could do for now. When he looked at Saphira, he saw that both Arya and Angela, with Solembum on her lap, sat on the saddle, while Saphira glared at him. Sighing, he made his way towards her and got onto the saddle, where he shifted his body in a comfortable position.

"Saphira, remember what I told you," said Arya with a faint voice, almost as if she was certain that something bad would happen. The dragoness craned her neck to inspect her passengers and flapped her wings several times before she dug her claws into the soft soil, launching herself into the air.

Eragon barely prevented a cough when Arya's arms wrapped around his waist, draining the air out of him. Angela was not faring any better as she expressed her dislike for flight in a more vocal manner that made Eragon chuckle. A louder laugh coming from the person he believed to be scared dwarfed his frail voice.

_Fools! I was just pretending to be scared!_ Angela shouted mentally, attracting both his and Arya's curious gazes. Seeing as her plan backfired, she smiled widely and then began muttering something in a low voice Eragon could not understand. For one, he could not even think properly because of the strong grip exerted on his waist.

_Arya, you are…too strong._

Arya immediately lessened her grip, but Eragon could still feel her fear because of the way she breathed.

_Nothing bad can happen Arya,_ Eragon told her mentally, trying to alleviate her fright. _Here, we are all powerful, and ground creatures should envy us._

_They certainly don't want to be in my place, _Arya said briefly as she frantically looked around, trying to make sure that Saphira wouldn't do anything out of a sudden.

_Not everyone has that privilege,_ Eragon smiled.

_That's a great honor, but I still don't like it up here. _Eragon could feel the tension that seeped through her, and he was somewhat sad that she couldn't enjoy the flight as much as he did.

_In time, you will love it, _he said, placing a hand on hers soothingly.

A constant growl of displeasure rippled from Solembum's throat, and no matter how good Angela tried to soothe him, it did not work. Since he did not want to disturb Arya after her initial fright, Eragon asked the herbalist,_Why are we visiting Tenga, exactly? _Angela did not respond right away, and he suspected that she was not quite pleased to talk to everyone else about the prophecy concerning Eragon.

Entering his mind, Angela said on a disapproving voice, _what Solembum told you is for you and you alone to know, along with anything that relates to it._ Eragon was mystified by the sudden change in Angela's behavior. She was usually different, always speaking nonsense, but now, her tone, her words, it was as if she was a changed person.

_I understand,_ Eragon paused. He never fully trusted Angela, but she saved his life once, and always worked in favor of the Varden, that was certain. On this aspect, he never doubted her, but there was something hidden, something he could not fully comprehend about Angela.

Her words interrupted his musings, _I hate to go back to that old fool, but he is the only one that will help us find the Rock of Kuthian._

Eragon had no idea what Angela's relationship with Tenga was, but he did not want to dig up further mysteries either, especially when they were related to such mysterious being. The lack of knowledge about what he was searching for disturbed Eragon. Even if he promised himself that he wouldn't bother Angela anymore, he couldn't help but ask.

_What is the Rock of Kuthian?_ Angela laughed in his head, almost mockingly.

_It is what the name says, silly. Solembum was right, you lack the normal intelligence level for a Rider._ Her reply did not infuriate Eragon, even if he felt the nagging sensation to reply back to this absent minded herbalist. Wishing not to talk anymore to her, Eragon's eyes fell on Arya's arms. They were so thin, so fragile, yet the hidden power with them could easily change the opinion of any human being.

_Saphira, I fear that Solembum is feeling dizzy!_ Angela shouted mentally to everyone. Arya immediately retreated her head from his shoulder and looked around nervously for the source of the disturbance, while he sighed in irritation.

At Angela's request, Saphira landed into a clearing where she and Solembum walked a bit, apparently happy to be on the ground once again. Saphira's look of enmity towards them showed that she was not quite pleased with her new passengers, and so was Eragon. Arya seemed to enjoy this break too, only that she never left Saphira's saddle. He suspected that she and Saphira were sharing tips related to flying, and the culprit behind this was Arya, who probably disliked the idea of acting like a scared rabbit in front of everyone.

As quickly as they landed, the group of land dwellers climbed onto the saddle and resumed their journey. If Saphira maintained her current speed, they would reach Edur Ithindra by nightfall.

The wind whipped through Eragon's hair as he sat upon Saphira's back. He could feel her muscles pumping beneath him, pushing their group closer to their destination. Arya still sat behind him, lightly holding her arm around his waist, silent the entire time they had been airborne. Very little had been said during the two hours they were flying, the only constant sound being the flapping of wings and sometimes a growl coming from Solembum.

Eragon continued to meditate on the past and present, his thoughts never staying on a subject more than several minutes. The only change in the landscape were the monotonous plains that replaced the lush forests, much to Saphira's disappointment. With no edible prey, she would surely be grumpy by the end of the day.

**I wonder if anyone will guess what the RoK actually is in my fanfic. Feel free to add your opinions, but there's a very high chance you might not get it. In this fanfic, it is kind of obvious, silly, but probably the most realistic RoK there is.**


	16. Edur Ithindra

**Here's an early Christmas treat for you. **

Multiple stars began twinkling in and out of existence on the azure sky hued with laces of orange and pink on the west, and dominated by the night's dark reign on the north, where Saphira was forcefully heading. Her hard, strained wing beats were but a glimpse to how tired she really was. A thin layer of froth formed around her mouth, as no rivers flowed through the plains to quench her thirst.

In her saddle, Eragon tried his best to restrain his stiff muscles from stretching and awake the sleeping elf whose petite head rested on his shoulder, her silken hair caressing his face when a gust of wind would ruffle it. Angela and Solembum were unusually silent, save for the purr of glee coming from the werecat.

Only Eragon seemed to mince his mind with dilemmas and divergent thoughts that would come and go like the silvery moon that shone with sparkling glory on the night sky. With a plan beginning to take form, he was more worried than ever. The safety of the ones he loved rested on his shoulders, and a mistake, as tiny and insignificant as that may be, would deny him of the possibility to vanquish the usurper king.

His weary eyes fell on the sapphire form of his dragon, whose muscles rippled under the scaly hide. Saphira's state worried Eragon a great deal, but stubborn as she was, the dragoness, in an act of desperation to escape his pleas to stop, closed her mind and pressed onwards since the sun had settled, taking no breaks, as it was intended.

Such recklessness angered Eragon slightly, making him feel guilty for her unneeded titanic effort. If he wouldn't have pressed her so hard the day before, maybe she wouldn't try to make amends by pushing her body to its limits. Has he become such a sadist, through which his opinions would turn into demands into the minds of the beings that cared about him? He refused to think of it, leaving the answer lost among the whispers of the night.

"We're there!" Angela suddenly shouted, rudely jolting the numb Rider and the elf from their relaxed state. "In the distance, look!" She continued on the same alarmed voice, as if he and Arya were not sitting next to her.

"I see it," Eragon mumbled silently, steadying his body into the saddle. Frowning slightly, he looked below for a closer inspection, but only a miniature landscape of nothingness entered his field of vision.

"You really do?" Angela inquired curiously.

"Of course," Eragon said dryly, doing everything in his power to escape this pestering herbalist. Angela sighed, reassuring him that his gambit paid off. Playing her game was something which seemed to work, and Eragon almost felt proud of himself for finally earning her approval. Out of a sudden, something slapped him on top of his head, a yelp of pain and surprise escaping him.

"There is nothing," Angela yelled with indignation, offended by his treacherous act. "What do you see, when we aren't there yet?"

Eragon tried to defend himself against her accusations, to prove that he indeed saw something, but the harsh reality backfired at him. With only a weak stutter shielding his mischievous act, he looked at Angela with a confused gaze.

"Then why did you say we're there?" He asked in a low voice, trying to reconcile with her by smiling meekly.

"I was testing your reactions, silly," Angela laughed, preparing to slap him once again before a slender hand blocked her arm in mid air.

"Stop that," Arya demanded on a serious voice, blinking a few times to adjust her vision.

Angela looked at them sulkily, "your behavior is abnormal and inadequate." Withdrawing her arm slowly, she placed it on Solembum's head, petting hastily, probably nervous because of Arya's intervention. "If you are sleeping, who will spot the crumbled tower?" She asked quizzically, throwing both of them a look of enmity.

As fast as it happened, she lowered her head, whispering to Solembum, "We're the only ones rational beings. We and Saphira."

"I heard that!" Eragon cut in, but Angela kept her composure, her eyes drifting towards her left.

"It's there!" She exclaimed with excitement, drawing both Eragon and Arya's attention from her. This time, her words spoke the truth, as Saphira in turn began her descent to an acceptable height before landing at a suitable distance from the crumbled outpost of Edur Ithindra.

The shock suffered at landing rippled through her muscles as the powerful legs dug into the soil for extra balance. In her tired state, even staying on her feet was an achievement for Saphira, and Eragon felt a surge of remorse washing through him the moment he rushed to her snout, jumping down of the saddle before anyone else.

_Saphira, you can rest, he_ pleaded, stroking the smooth scales of her neck with his hand. _Please do not do this again, not when we can rest as much as we want. _

Saphira shifted her head, fixing one sapphire eye on him, _that's nothing, little one. I am strong enough to do it._ Eragon knew in an instant that this journey had really taken its toll on Saphira, but proving her different in such moment was a bad choice. Smiling, he hugged her neck lovingly and allowed his gratitude for her effort to flow through their link.

Arya and Angela were already on the ground, discussing about something apparently uninteresting. It was only when Angela beckoned Eragon to join her when he abandoned the leather satchels attached to the saddle and joined her, looking at Arya pleadingly. Her emerald eyes did not betray any hint of amusement, suggesting a possible serious matter.

"Stand tall, you hunchbacked mushroom!" Angela commanded, a serious look on her face. Her hazel eyes sparkled vividly, a flame which was previously not there ignited in the lustrous gemstones. Her new, imposing look made Eragon feel uneasy as he shifted his body correspondingly, waiting for her to speak her piece.

Pleased with the attention and keen stares diverted at her, Angela opened her mouth, "Saphira will have to stay here for obvious reasons." She then beckoned the confused group to follow, no questions asked. With utmost bewilderment, Eragon obeyed and said to himself,_ mentioning the obvious, how suiting._

"Eragon, keep up!" Arya whispered to him, a bit worried because of his absent minded attitude. "It's better to stay near her, as we don't know who this Tenga is," she advised as soon as Eragon joined her, his eyes fixed on her slender form.

"He's an old hermit," he complemented her. "Albeit a very strange one."

"You know him?" Arya asked, a curious look on her face.

"I think I do," Eragon whispered briefly, measuring with his eyes the distance until they would reach the crumbled outpost. Its slightly imposing structure towered above the plains, an old reminder of the elven power which kept peace and serenity throughout the land for centuries in a row.

Taking his eyes off the dilapidated structure which was almost conquered by the nature's forces, Eragon said, "I already told you about him. It was before you found me after I left Helgrind."

Arya nodded with uncertainty, apparently surprised in a negative manner by her memory lapse, "Yes you did, it's just that…" her voice trailed off for a second before she acquired the same stout resolve that was always present in her words.

"In light of the recent events, I forgot."

In that moment, Eragon felt encouraged to funnel confidence into her, to prove her that she was no longer alone to her dark past and sorrowful memories. After shuffling closer to her, he extended his firm and rough palm slowly, grabbing her petite yet strong hand.

"That doesn't matter," he said soothingly, maintaining eye contact with her as she turned her head brusquely the moment he touched her soft hand, looking at him with bewilderment.

"You remained true to yourself, no matter how long fate crashed its gloomy and full of misery waves repeatedly against you."

Arya didn't know what to say. Her sparkling emerald eyes switched towards Eragon's hand, looking at it fixedly.

"That's something I couldn't do alone, not without Saphira" he continued with the same calm and full of compassion voice, releasing her hand slowly, his fingers barely leaving the warm confines of her hand.

"I could never be as strong as you," he concluded.

Arya shook her head vehemently, "You are wrong." Her strong yet caring voice took Eragon by surprise. Smiling sheepishly, he found himself staring into her eyes, searching for the ounce of truth that could strengthen her affirmation.

Feeling a bit uneasy because of his perplexed stare, Arya switched her gaze towards the elven outpost. "My strength of will was built upon pain and suffering, while you were still untainted by the viciousness of fate."

Eragon said nothing as Arya paused for a second.

"You can understand me now, Eragon." Suddenly, her voice acquired smoothness and compassion, contrasting the seriousness which permeated moments ago. "You can understand me because you were lacerated by the same pain. It's this feeling that keeps you away from forming bonds, out of fear that they might dissipate like dust upon the winds of war."

"Is that why you slowly started to accept me?" Eragon asked fearfully, hoping that this boldness will not summon an inappropriate reaction. Still, he needed to know, he had to find out.

"You might say so," Arya said curtly, increasing her pace slightly. Doing the same, Eragon caught up with her and tried to find the right words for the next question, but a voice he knew all too well interfered with the silence of the night.

"What are you mumbling, you two?" Angela asked sharply, signaling them to hasten their pace. "If Tenga goes to sleep, we will have to wait until morning!"

"That would be a tragedy," Eragon whispered to Arya, hoping to raise her mood a little. Sadly, his words did not fulfill their task as she merely threw him an awkward look.

"At least Saphira would get a proper rest," he tried to fix his little escapade. This time, his trick worked, and Arya's face lightened a little bit because of his caring nature.

"Come near me, confused little kittens," Angela demanded in her specific straightforward manner. Without questioning her motives, Eragon and Arya joined the now still herbalist, who looked at them both with her absent minded stare.

"We're looking for the Tome of Theldurin the Oracle. Both of you are unable to decipher it, and I don't expect you to." She suddenly paused, looking at Eragon with an incredulous expression. Her eyes, her mangy and uncombed brown hair, even her fervent attitude made him feel uneasy under the power of her gaze. Just when he was about to give in and say something, she switched her eyes towards Arya, who seemed unaffected by this mysterious power she possessed.

"Good, now listen carefully, like I always do, especially you," she said to Eragon, smiling a wide smile at him.

"That tome is precious. It speaks about the rise and fall of great races. I would tell you more, but you don't care or don't understand, especially you," she interrupted the flow of the story once again, chuckling at Eragon. Her attitude was really starting to irk him, yet Eragon did nothing to show his displeasure.

"Tenga is a simple man. You only have to distract him well enough until I steal the tome. Careful though, as he can turn you both into redcap fungi if you don't succeed," she laughed and crouched to pick Solembum, who was brushing his lean body against her left leg. After one brief inspection, she nodded to them and pointed towards the elven outpost.

_Mention not something about what I or Solembum told you. Tenga is crafty, and should he obtain a particular piece of information, we would not be friends anymore._ Eragon was stunned in his tracks when Angela contacted him mentally. Unlike a few moments ago, her voice was stern, devoid of the usual playfulness that characterized her.

"Eragon, what are you doing?" Arya asked, breaking his musings. Shaking his head to remove his peculiar thoughts about Angela, he did as Arya asked. Still, he couldn't feel that there was something hidden from him, something involving Angela.

_Or maybe that's how she is when she is serious,_ he thought, alleviating his unfounded worries. The walk towards the crumbled outpost of Edur Ithindra was like an eerie dream. No words were exchanged between anyone as they made their way towards the central hill.

Near the summit, the ground leveled off underneath his feet and the thicket opened up, and he entered a large glade. The lower part of the tower was wide and ribbed, like the trunk of a tree. Then the structure narrowed and rose toward the sky for over thirty feet, ending in a sharp, jagged line. The upper half of the tower lay on the ground, shattered into innumerable fragments.

The group advanced slowly and carefully as to not trip and fall in one of the loose remnants of the once solid tower. Making use of the gleaming light provided by the moon, Angela moved in front of the narrow door, stopping by its side.

With a wary voice, she whispered, "Behind the tower, Tenga has a garden, but it's night and cold, so he will most likely not plant anything." Satisfied with her miraculous finding, she nodded with delight and continued.

"You will have to distract him in some other way."

"And how can we do that?" Eragon asked in a low voice.

"Use your intuition, cute fungus," she smiled before pushing the old door open. Its age was proportional to the unpleasant creak that irritated Eragon as it opened, revealing the central room. Even from his position, he could see the same coiling staircase that he remembered when he last visited the hermit. It seemed that filling his precious space with tomes, scrolls and different scribing tools had finally made him understand that he still needed a bit of empty room.

On both sides, two crude bookshelves long enough to stretch from one end to another occupied a good part of the room. Numerous scrolls and tomes erratically arranged occupied the shelves, resembling the inner disorder or the owner whose jittery attitude never left room for tidy rooms.

"Take one more step and you will be forced to undergo the same tedious cleaning I applied to this place!" came a hasty reply from somewhere nearby.

Eragon gulped emptily, retracting his foot from the clean carpet he unknowingly stepped onto.

A harsh slap on the back of his head made him turn his head backwards. Angela chuckled silently before whispering into Eragon's ear.

"Tenga doesn't like dirt in his room. Remove your boots." Confused and slightly irritated because of her methods to get her point across, Eragon slowly removed his boots, placing them right where the carpet ended. From a closer inspection, the carpet wasn't that clean, small pebbles and several grass blades littering its surface.

"What is an elf doing here? And…" the voice suddenly ceased, as if a powerful spell shackled the rough words coming from the man's mouth. Before Eragon could break out of his confusion, the same man of medium stature, pearl white hair and a shaggy, short and disheveled beard appeared from behind the bookshelf to his left. Long has passed since he had last seen him, yet time did not ravage him in any form.

"What's this…this woman doing inside my house?" He stuttered angrily, scowling at Angela. His facial expression, the bulged blue eyes and the overly fast breath rate were obvious signs that he wasn't quite in good terms with Angela, yet there was nothing Eragon could do about it.

"I want you out!" he commanded, pointing towards the exit. "Else I will…" suddenly, he stopped, looking towards a blank spot on the floor. To Eragon, it seemed weird, a fact that only strengthened his earlier conclusion about this man and his frail sanity. But in the next moment, a hiss permeated the silence in the room, a sound strangely familiar to Eragon. Looking with the corner of his eyes towards the source of the sound, he saw the lithe, elegant form of Solembum who appeared from behind the bookshelf to the right, his feet barely making any noise as he neared Angela's legs.

"Listen," Eragon interrupted unsurely, trying to find a way around his inner defenses, "We have questions, important questions."

"Your questions can wait for as long as you would clean up the mess you made!" Tenga almost shouted with his powerful and deep voice. "and…", he continued, gesturing incoherently towards the werecat "That bundle of fur will shed hair all around my magnificent well of endless dilemmas."

Eragon raised an eyebrow quizzically, trying to comprehend the meaning behind his words. Maybe he referred to this place? Whatever it was, this was one type of person Eragon barely suffered.

"Stop being so tense, you old willow," Angela cut in, calmly as ever. "You know how seriousness affects your life, especially when you search for answers which are far beyond your capabilities of comprehension." The corners of her lips stretched into an almost wicked smile, as if she expected the right opportunity to pounce like a cat onto the unsuspecting mouse.

"You speak nonsense!" Tenga shrugged off her claims, inspecting his guests with enmity present in his eyes. When his stare reached Angela, a deep frown engulfed his face, a warning that this man was pushed to the limits by her daring attitude.

"I know what you are," he said, gesturing in strange patterns while moving around impatiently, "I know that, oh yes I do…" he trailed off, looking towards Eragon " and that ugly, skinny elf and shaggy, stupid looking boy have no idea."

His voice suddenly died down, acquiring calmness similar to a flowing river masked by the stillness of the serene night. At no point had his body betrayed any hint of regret for allowing certain words to escape his mouth unscathed by the repercussions of decency. Arya was already fuming by now, and Eragon almost feared that she would do something reckless to end this pitiful squabble.

"Tenga," she began on a serious, commanding tone which sent shivers down Eragon's spine due to its intensity under such pressure, "we came here to warn you that Galbatorix had sent his henchmen to steal your knowledge."

The old man's face immediately acquired a confused, almost terrified expression when Arya's warning reached his ears. "Is that true?"

Everyone, including Angela, nodded curtly, and Arya resumed, "fortunately, we managed to catch them unawares and dispatch them."

A great relief washed over Tenga, who exhaled loudly. His posture relieved part of its tension, yet he was still far from abandoning his protective nature.

"Good, then leave with my gratitude, for I have nothing else to offer," he said, beckoning towards the exit hastily.

"Not just yet," Angela interrupted with a sinister voice which was laced with satisfaction, like she merely awaited for this very moment. "Slitha," she whispered.

Tenga immediately looked towards Arya for some reason and shouted, "Deflect the spell!" In an instant, the unaware elf collapsed to the floor like a lifeless plant, caught in the fetters of Angela's spell. Eragon gritted his teeth, his fists clenching tightly.

"You vile wretch! I knew that the likes of you would never allow me to live in peace!" He yelled at Angela, his face contorting with anger. "Engulfing nightmares!"

Eragon felt his mind being torn to shreds, raked by the power of that incredibly powerful spell. Without any hope to fight it, his vision turned black and he felt his conscience being ripped from his body as he dropped on the ground. A few incoherent words, soft mutters coming from Angela caressed his ears, and the veil of darkness lifted from before his eyes, feeling invigoration seeping through him.

"You…that was…" Tenga began to stutter frightfully, his jittery stare unable to settle on Angela's frail structure.

"But…it doesn't matter," he tried to regain his composure, "As I have powers of my own." His now restored solemn voice began weaving words Eragon had never heard before. They didn't seem to belong to any language, yet he could feel the malice, the hatred, and most of all, the power of these words. It was as if the sound itself was some sort of spell meant to confuse and weaken the opponent.

Out of a sudden, the strange string of words stopped, a loud thud announcing the downfall of the old hermit. Dizzy, with his mind working excruciatingly slow after the uncanny moments when he felt his senses increase to vast proportions, Eragon got up with a groan, unable to comprehend what just happened.

The form of Tenga materialized before his eyes, offering him only a little insight about the outcome of his duel with Angela. With worry surging through him, he glanced with uncertainty towards Arya, her raven hair covering her facial features.

"She's only asleep," Angela intervened, moving in front of Eragon for a better look. Her curious hazel eyes inspected him with haste before she gave him a soft, reassuring slap on his cheek. "Stand tall like a poplar! You don't want to be a hunchbacked mushroom for the rest of your life!"

After giving him this most useful advice, apparently not concerned, or ignorant, to what happened, she glanced at Arya for a short while before her eyes fixed on the staircase.

"Let's steal what rightfully belongs to us my beloved," Eragon heard her faint voice, followed by a purr as Solembum jumped from an empty shelf and disappeared through the spiraling stairs.

**I love this chapter so much. If there's something that can rival the Galby battle and the cute little Thorn chapter, it's definitely this one, along with the following chapter. Now, I know most of you will have questions related to what on earth has happened at the end, but that matter is partially addressed in the following chapter. Mind you, I say partially because certain mysterious content has to remain hidden. Sure, you can come up with theories, but I'm not going to tell you whether they are right or wrong. That would mean providing spoilers, and nobody likes spoilers.**

** The next chapter will obviously be a continuation to this one, and after that, Saphira will get a bigger role and we'll find something quite interesting about her. So, tell me if you liked this chapter, what you liked, and feel free to show us your awesome theories**


	17. The Mystery of Tenga

**Alright, you guys, here's the next chapter. It's quite long, but it has everything in it: answers to the question that were risen in the previous chapter, ExA, and more of Angela. Oh yea, we're not done with her yet.**  
** Anyway, on with the chapter and happy reading! You will most likely not get another update this year, so Merry Christmas and a happy new year.**

There were many questions and worries which plagued Eragon's mind, but none was as shredding as the one related to Arya and her condition. Until now, he had never seen a spell caster being able to deflect spells, and the strange words which Tenga used to power what seemed a destructive spell could just not leave his mind. Although they sounded like a string of sounds to him, a sinister curiosity gripped Eragon, one which could only be quenched by Angela, who seemed to know more than what she allowed others to believe.

Slowly, he shuffled on his weakened legs next to Arya, lying down next to her. Curls of vapor ruffled the tuft which covered her nose ever so slightly, her even breath drawing a part of his worries with each exhale.

With great caution, he probed at her mind gently to try and wake her up by breaking the spell with his own. However, even if there was no barrier to block him off, it seemed that none of his efforts were paid off, and the previously faltered worries returned to him, only amplified. Eragon felt powerless and weak when he was put in front with something that was a mystery even for him, the only inheritor of Oromis's knowledge.

The only thing he could do was wait and mince his mind with the multiple questions that tormented him. But even such simple action came harder than misfortune itself, when his thoughts ran rampant across the vast emptiness which resembled the current state of his mind. Whatever Angela did, it completely disrupted his inner balance, his usually powerful and disciplined mind, throwing him into a state of utter powerlessness and confusion.

If that wasn't bad enough, a sudden headache almost crippled Eragon due to its intensity. He tried to scream in pain as he fell on his side, his teeth gritting against one another as he fought the terrible pain which seemed to have no end.

After an intense and excruciating moment, the pain released its vile grip, allowing him to regain his rhythmic breath. His temples still pounded and perspiration coated his torso, but at least he was in full control of his body once again.

Eragon simply lay down, trying to recover from the shock he just experienced. What just happened? Was it an aftermath of Tenga's spell, or was it because of Angela's miraculous intervention? He did not know, or simply couldn't find the answer. The only certain information he possessed was the eerie feeling he felt when Angela said something, right after Tenga had cast the spell, but even that clue had its share of mystery and uncertainty to it.

The sound of footsteps coming from the stairs roused Eragon from his reverie. With great difficulty, he got onto his legs, his face acquiring a wry expression as he groaned loudly.

"We have no time to sleep dear," Angela's voice came from the direction of the spiral stair. Not surprisingly, she shortly unveiled her presence. For a moment, Eragon thought that she would at least be pleased to acquire the tome she spoke so highly about, but the displeasure on her face, along with her furrowed brow told him otherwise.

"Earthroots and darkcap funguses!" she exclaimed worriedly as she shot towards Eragon, surprising him with her speed. "Why are you looking so lifeless?" Her agitated eyes scanned every part of his face briefly while her foot tapped the floor slightly.

"I….I…," Eragon mumbled, unable to form a string of coherent words. Angela raised an eyebrow quizzically.

"You explain me," he said on a serious voice, regaining his composure. "What did Tenga do? What did you just do? What sort of spell was that?" Without his consent, his voice picked up in volume, turning into some sort of shout at the end. He had no idea why he felt the need to express his troubles like an avalanche, but Angela was not quite sympathetic to his predicament as her eyes widened with shock.

"Too loud!" she complained, moving away from him. "Too much, and too loud!"

"I apologize," Eragon cut in, trying to make amends. "I don't know what came over me."

Angela softened her look, a sigh escaping her, "You poor little fungus. I think I know what you need." With a fast move, she reached towards a pouch she picked from one of Saphira's saddle bags and rummaged through it until her hand revealed a water skin.

"Sprout vigorously," she smiled, extending an arm. Eragon looked at her with bewilderment.

"I'm not thirsty."

"I insist," Angela said firmly.

"I want answers, not water!" Eragon retorted, allowing his feelings to rule over him once again. This time, Angela seemed to pardon him, no sign betraying her hostility at his out of place reaction.

"So tense and serious," she mumbled, shuffling towards Arya's sleeping form. She slowly crouched besides her, moving a hand across her raven hair. She did that several times, yet no reaction came from the sleeping elf.

Feeling a bit nervous due to her casual nature, he asked, "Will you wake her up?"

"You couldn't?" Angela replied with a question, turning her head towards him.

"I don't know why," Eragon sighed. "But I'm sure you can."

"What makes you say that?"

Her endless questions poured like droplets of water in a rainy day, where the elements annoy everyone through their persistence and power. Eragon felt no different right now, only that he could actually put an end to this troublesome storm of questions.

"I heard you," he replied with conviction. "When Tenga used the engulfing nightmares spell, you were not affected by it, and…" he trailed off, unsure of how to put it exactly into words. "You abolished its effects on me somehow."

Angela smiled, "Ah, that was nothing, really."

Eragon was not quite convinced by her tone, especially when she said it like it was something everyone could do.

"Those words were foreign to me."

"You were just dizzy, that's all," she said hastily, switching her gaze back at Arya. Eragon couldn't help but feel that she was hiding something. With determination, he pressed on for answers.

"Actually, I wasn't…" he paused, trying to reminisce that peculiar feeling he felt at that moment.

"I felt invigorated, powerful, and for a brief moment, I had the impression I could feel…," he suddenly stopped, searching for the word that simply evaded him at the moment.

"Much…"he concluded with uncertainty.

Angela got up from her lower position, turning around to face Eragon. Her expression darkened a little, having lost its mirth, and her hazel eyes sparkled with a strange glint.

"You and I are much alike," she said, beckoning him to follow her as she headed towards a small, round table where several wooden chairs were placed randomly. "Curiosity may sometimes urge you to do something irrational, and the regret always comes at a later time," she chuckled, sitting her slender body on one of the round and not very comfortable chair.

Smiling politely, Eragon sat at the opposite part of the table, shifting his bulk until he was pleased with his position. There was much he wanted to ask her, but was too timid to force her unveil parts of the past. Instead, he decided to solve the most pressing problem. But first, he had to understand what exactly she meant with the previous remark.

"I don't really understand how that is related to my previous question."

"It really isn't," Angela said quickly. "It was just an observation."

"I see…" Eragon responded, a bit nervous because of the fact that she always avoided his most important concerns.

"But I still want to know what spell that was."

Angela's half smile immediately vanished. "It was just a dull, boring spell meant to help you," she said hurriedly, her fingers tapping the wooden table lightly. "Paying attention to all the details makes you more boring than those Varden guards."

She seemed quite agitated by his persistence, and her voice kind of betrayed her reluctance to talk about this subject. That could only mean that she indeed did something extraordinary, and letting her go away with it was not something Eragon intended.

"Details or not, I had no knowledge of this spell," Eragon's voice faded while he tried to further emphasize her point, but Angela cut him straight away.

"Because you cannot know everything dear!" The tapping of her fingers increased in volume as her eyes scanned him with skepticism. "Was that geezer who trained you such an incredibly dull person?"

"I believe…he wasn't," Eragon added, trying his best not to offend the weird herbalist. Even if he got used to her different nature, he couldn't tolerate any insult against Oromis, no matter who was the one to say it.

"Then why are you insisting so much?"

"Because I want to know the spell!" Eragon barked. Blood rushed towards his face as he began losing his temper, despite his best efforts to keep the beast caged.

"I'm afraid you can't," Angela said sympathetically, staring at him innocently. "I don't have the patience to help you, my dear boy."

"I understand…" Eragon bowed his head in defeat, quitting his attempts to get it out from her. "But you still haven't told me what sort of words were those."

Angela drew her head back slightly when Eragon fixed his unwavering stare on her. There was sharpness in his gaze, sharper than Brisingr itself.

"He was just an old man. He forgot some words, that's all," she said indifferently, lifting her body off the chair. "Lets check on Arya, shall we?" Her smile and merry attitude returned as soon as she left the table, but Eragon was still churning like a volcano inside.

"I don't believe you!" He cut in harshly. "There was something about those words, something that I cannot understand."

"Oh, but you don't have to believe me," Angela replied without even turning around.

_Barzhul! _Eragon cursed mentally. Try as he might to press Angela for answers, his efforts would prove futile as long as the herbalist had no intent in sharing this information with him. Walking lifelessly towards Angela, he stared blankly at Arya, who had yet to wake up from her enchanted sleep.

Angela muttered something silently to herself, but Eragon didn't even bother deciphering the meaning of her words. He was disappointed because of his weakness, he felt lonely and not understood by anyone, but the most pressing feeling was guilt. He felt guilty for his weakness, for his inability to protect Arya and to defeat Tenga. If it wasn't for Angela, there is no telling what might have happened.

"Are ghosts bothering you?" Eragon was suddenly ripped from his musing by a voice he was now well accustomed with.

"I was just…"he trailed off, as if he even lost the willingness to explain himself.

"You are so pale and sore inside, my dear," Angela said and hugged him unexpectedly. Eragon had no idea how to react to her strange, apparently friendly gesture, so he merely stood as stiff as a statue.

A groan suddenly pierced the eerie silence. With the corner of his eyes, Eragon could see Arya's body moving as she tried to push herself up, her groggy eyes blinking rapidly.

"Sprout like a healthy mushroom after the rain," said Angela, releasing Eragon from her arms and headed towards the spiral staircase.

Eragon immediately rushed to Arya's side, helping her maintain her balance as she tried to get up unsteadily.

"What happened?" she asked on a low voice, still trying to comprehend where she was.

"It was Tenga," Eragon whispered while he allowed her to coil her arm around his neck to support her weight. "He cast a spell on you."

Arya looked at him with a confused stare, "How haven't I noticed it then?" Then, her eyes settled on one of the small chairs situated at the same table Eragon sat earlier.

"Oh…" Eragon sighed, helping her walk the entire length of the corridor created between the bookshelves.

"Thank you," she whispered faintly as she rested her body on the wooden chair, brushing her eyes sleepily.

Eragon tried to force a polite smile, but the corners of his mouth didn't stretch to their full length.

"It was a spell, Eragon," she said with a tint of anger, almost regretting that it was her who fell like a helpless prey beneath the spell's effect. "A simple spell that defeated me."

"It wasn't like that…"

"How, why did I not notice it?" Arya interrupted as if Eragon's words did not even reach her ears. Her emerald eyes unsurely drifted towards a stray book tossed into a dark corner.

"Is it because I am weak?" Her stare immediately fixed on Eragon, "Have I become so powerless since…" she suddenly stopped, digging her head inside the confines of her palms.

"You are not weak, Arya," Eragon said reassuringly, extending a hand towards her in a friendly gesture. "You are strong, and Tenga merely caught you unaware."

Arya looked at him, then at his hand for a very short moment before she pushed herself up from the seat, her body swaying unsteadily. With great speed, Eragon worriedly rushed to her side, but Arya stopped him with conviction.

"I'm not as helpless as you think!" she said on a higher voice, the harshness present in her melodious voice altering its once frivolous nature. "Do you really see me as one of those fragile humans that are in constant need of help?"

"No, I'm not, but..."

"Then what is it? By all means, say it!" She said bitterly, looking at Tenga with antipathy like he was a long time enemy to her.

"I can't let you fight this war alone, or anything else for that matter," Eragon replied on a steadfast voice, funneling what he felt for Arya in his words, "You are not alone anymore, and by my word as a Rider and friend, I promise that I will abolish the dark veil of misery and prevent pain from further corrupting you."

"Misery, Eragon…" Arya paused, looking into his eyes with a resolute and cold stare, "was my only company since father died, and it further coiled around me with vile tentacles, drawing what little remained of my happiness with the death of someone who mattered to me."

Eragon felt a wave of pity crushing against his mind, and each drop of sparkling water turned to deadly venom as it splattered through his mind, his memories and his feelings. As much as it pained him to see Arya in her current state, she herself denied him of the opportunity to show her, no, prove her that his friendship was the foundation on which she could sprout new and happier feelings.

"Happiness… it's like a hazy memory for me," Arya mumbled, her left hand clenching around a scroll she picked from the floor. "I realized that time does not wait for us to discover the ephemeral beauty in this life, and that's why I had to rely on the prominent misery."

The scroll creased under her grip and fell from her hand like a leaf in the autumn, when life had all but been sucked from it. "Pain and misery taught me how to survive. They made me strong as my blade clashed relentlessly against the one of my kin and magic surged through my mind and was carried by my words with great expertise."

"Arya, you…"

"…I allowed the passion for improvement to become my way of life, desperately trying to mask everything that threatened to destroy me."

Arya looked towards the seat absently, as if it was something she longed for. After slowly shuffling towards the seat, she dropped down and sighed loudly. Eragon shortly followed her, and no protests came.

"Yet I never felt complete, and I knew I couldn't. Lying to myself could not possibly fill that gap, as it mostly covered it with a superficial layer of delusion."

Eragon churned with sadness, especially when memories of his dreaded life came into mind. Garrow, Brom, Oromis and Glaedr. Their death greatly affected him, but Saphira had always taken the role of a friend everyone should have during difficult moments. For Arya, it was different. Loneliness gnawed her positive feelings over the time, and she solely relied on gut instinct to survive. Eragon knew it. She herself acknowledged it. But if he was a friend of hers, why couldn't he change her perspective?

A moment of eerie silence followed, during which Eragon felt more powerless than ever. The tip of his ears reddened as his eyes shyly and slowly drifted towards Arya, as if he was unworthy to gaze upon her beauty. Her perfect chin rested on top of her fist as she contemplated the recent events.

"I don't know…" she said faintly, almost to herself. "I thought I knew how my life will develop, because fate has made that choice for me. Yet now, everything I thought I knew was altered."

She then looked around the room, sighing, "This dilapidated outpost resembles how my mind is, Eragon. My once strong beliefs, the outer layer, now lay crumbled, while the interior is filled to the brink with doubts." Her emerald eyes then fixed on him, sending shivers across his body.

"Have you ever doubted a friendship, Eragon?"

Eragon's heart froze, pierced by a freezing icicle. Those words acted like an all too powerful magic that prevented him from breathing, draining life itself from his body. He was paralyzed and felt ill. A slight tremor began racking his body, despite his best efforts to conceal it.

"Have you put to doubt its fleeting moments of happiness, which might be snuffed out by this war at any given time?" At the end, she almost stuttered, something which immediately breathed life into Eragon once again. She was not rejecting him, nor was in her intention to break down his morale. Only now did he truly understand her previous comparison with Edur Ithindra, and without even allowing his mind to filter his emotions, he said.

"No, never."

Arya looked at him with renewed hope, her eyes almost begging him to put and end to her worries, to find what she has sought for ages.

"If we would let pain and past misery consume us, then why are we even living?" Eragon said with conviction, swaying all his previous doubts aside.

"You are a shade of your former self, Arya, and such worries will keep you in darkness, never allowing you to bask in the light which represents happiness." Eragon paused for a moment. Perspiration covered his body his hands were all sweaty. Still, he pressed on without allowing his emotions to stop him.

"You prefer the darkness because you are used to it, and although you desperately search to change your condition, you are afraid."

Arya stared at him intently, almost stunned by his words. Her breath was accelerated, but her face was still milk white, while his was probably red and hotter than bonfire. After rubbing his hands against his leggings to dry them a little, he got up on his shaking and unsure legs.

"While you may believe what you want," he said as he moved towards her, "I will try to be the light that guides you and the spell that can fix the dilapidated tower." Then, he extended a shaky hand towards her, a bridge that could allow her to make a change that could forever change her life.

Arya looked at his hand briefly, shock etched on her stunned expression. Every cell of Eragon's body tingled with apprehension, and this agonizing sensation only amplified when she looked into his eyes closely. During those moments, Eragon felt his body going numb and even standing up seemed difficult. For a split second, he wanted this misery to end and withdraw from the mesmerizing eye contact by retracting his arm, but then, a firm grip returned his mind to reality. It was the same warm and reassuring grip of the same smooth hand he knew.

Time seemed to stop, and everything seemed surreal as Arya lifted her body and whispered, "Thank you, Eragon." Her hand released his own, ending the magical moment which has little explanation in words. He did not know how to react, or maybe it was his slow mind, or numb body, that refused to cooperate. But even in his bewildered state, he could see Arya approaching more than ever, her lithe body making contact with his own as her arms wrapped around his torso.

"Thank you for being here for me."

Eragon was stiff as a tree in her warm embrace. He wanted to pat her on the back reassuringly, to return the kind words with the same honey laced voice she used, but none of that happened before Arya withdrew from the contact. Only then could Eragon exhale and process what just happened, but a high pitched voice made him shudder violently.

"I can't find my tome," Angela complained, heading towards one of the two bookshelves in the room. Vellums, scrolls and tomes fell from their sanctuary, swiped away by her agitated hands which desperately clang to a tome for a minute, only to abandon it shortly after. Arya slowly backed away and sat on the chair, a hand placed on her brow.

Angela suddenly turned around, her face contorted with displeasure. "You know why I cannot find it?" Eragon shrugged.

"Because I cannot see it," she said quickly, mumbling something under her breath. From behind a fallen pile of tomes came a light growl as Solembum headed towards Angela slowly. The agitated herbalist kneeled and looked at him intently for a second before a laughter escaped her mouth.

"I think we didn't pay enough attention to the name of the tome," she said, beckoning Eragon to come closer to her. After looking at Arya with lack of interest for a brief moment, she got closer to Eragon, whispering. "Between you and me, I think this tome has a dwarven name."

"What does that mean?" Eragon asked quizzically.

"That it should belong to the dwarves, not Tenga."

Eragon scratched the back of his head with uncertainty, "Then why were you so certain that it was here?"

"Because many tomes have a name that starts with T!" Angela protested loudly, glaring at him. "There's Theldurin the Brave, Theldurin the Cook, Theldurin the Lost, it's like everyone uses the name of that dwarf just because he was the one who…" she suddenly stopped, smiling at Eragon briefly before she yelled.

"Arya, we're leaving!"

"Wait," Eragon intervened, grabbing her slender shoulder, "who was this Theldurin? Tell me!" Angela's eyes widened the moment he increased his voice, her face acquiring a frightful expression.

"You are so scary sometimes," she whimpered, jerking her body from his feeble grip.

"So scary and loud he is, my beloved," she whispered to Solembum, searching for the reassurance that might not possibly come from him. Shaking his head with doubt and dislike at her form that shortly disappeared behind the bookshelf, Eragon nodded at Arya, lifting off the confusion that gripped her for a moment when Angela rudely summoned her.

"We should also go," Eragon said curtly, looking towards the exit. "But before that, I will find out what Angela doesn't want to tell me." Bearing a most solemn expression and determined to unveil a part of the mystery related to Tenga and her, Eragon rushed to a bookshelf and helped himself with a musty tome that contained strange characters and drawings about certain tools, probably used my dwarves.

"What are you looking for?" asked Arya as she moved towards the other bookshelf in order to help him complete his search. An inward smile stretched across Eragon's face.

"Everything that can tell us about who Tenga is and what he knows," he said, pushing aside some ancient and ravaged scrolls. One tome spoke about the founding of the dwarven kingdom while another was strictly about the roots of the dwarven race in Alagaesia, or so Eragon suspected from the almost unintelligible writing.

"They're all about dwarves," Arya confirmed his suspicions as her eyes analyzed a tome before placing it back into its corresponding slot. "This is bizarre…"

Eragon's heart jolted in an instant. "What is it?" He asked hastily.

"Most of them are historical tomes, but none actually refers to the recent history," she said, turning page after page from a tome that seemed a new addition among the old ones due to its aspect. "I haven't seen any clan emblem on each of those tomes, and none talks about clans and leadership."

_Why is Tenga highly interested in dwarves?_ Eragon mused, trying to piece the newly acquired information together. It made no sense to him, as he first thought that it was some sort of elven magic he had used moments before Angela prevented him from doing so.

"Eragon, this…" Arya suddenly paused, browsing more pages in order to comprehend the contents of the tome in a quick manner. "This is a very old dwarven language." She then proceeded to show him a strange array of runes which held no particular meaning for Eragon.

"While I can't understand everything it says, I suspect that it refers to the dawn of the dwarven race."

"There has to be something in there," Eragon said critically, as if time itself would end shortly.

"That may be," Arya interrupted from her action, putting the tome back, "but I cannot know for sure."

"Tenga was searching for something, but why does it relate to the dwarves?" Eragon looked at the impressive bookshelf that towered above his pitiful being. The sheer amount of tomes simply overwhelmed him, yet there were several that held an important clue to the odd words used by Tenga, or the nature of his search.

Arya's words summoned his awareness instantly, "dwarves are one of the ancient races. Their knowledge might surpass even ours."

"That I know, yet…" Eragon looked around the room, trying to satiate his unbound curiosity. The first thing that felt conspicuous to him was the staircase that led to the upper levels of the outpost. Suddenly, the memory of Angela climbing up to search for the tome entered his mind. Surely there were more important tomes up there, especially when Angela herself didn't bother with the lower level.

"Follow me," he beckoned Arya as he evaded the pile of tomes gathered at the corner of the bookshelf.

"What are you still doing here?" a voice full of indignation came from behind, stopping Eragon dead in his tracks. "Trying to prepare tea for when Tenga wakes up?"

"I was only…"

"I don't care!" Angela yelled without any restraints. "With Solembum gone, I will not be able to prevent him from turning you into something abnormal." A deep frown darkened her features, erasing any trace of her playful attitude. However, Eragon refused to move. While her words held some truth, he felt reluctant to abandon the only trace of information related to Tenga.

With his attention focused on the staircase, he barely the fast approaching Angela who grabbed his hand firmly, attempting to drag him out.

"What are you doing?" Eragon protested, using his superior strength to release himself.

"Saving you," she said with determination, grabbing his hand once again. "Solembum was the one to put him into the enchanted sleep, and he can wake up at any given moment."

Having limited options, Eragon nodded in defeat at Angela, who smiled in delight at his submissive attitude.

"He can walk alone," Arya cut in, staring at Angela disapprovingly.

"His other hand is free, in case you haven't noticed," Angela chuckled.

"He's not a cat that you can toy around with." Eragon was slightly taken aback by her persistence and the unbending fortitude present in her voice, especially that she dared to almost insult this strange herbalist.

"He most certainly isn't," said Angela, releasing his hand with great speed. "But know that your rank, or his, holds no importance to me." With that, she made a quick turn around and pushed the door open, mumbling something to herself before an unpleasant creak masked her spontaneous displeasure.

"I'm not sure about her," Eragon muttered silently, staring at the door blankly. "She's something more than just a deranged herbalist, yet I cannot put my finger on it." A moment of silence followed, during which both of them seemed to contemplate on Angela's recent actions, Tenga's mysterious presence and most of all, Eragon felt strangely obsessed with finding the origins of Tenga's words.

"You cannot let her control you, Eragon," Arya interrupted his thoughts as she moved towards the door, placing a hand on it. "You are still a Rider, no matter what Angela believes, and I expect you no less of you."

"Yes…" he answered with half a mouth, reaching the door in two strides. "Yes you are right."

"Good," Arya said curtly, leaving the outpost without looking back. After glancing one last time at Tenga's sleeping form, Eragon gulped reassuringly and allowed the wooden door to slam against the hard rock, dust pouring from its ancient hinges.

While he truly meant what he said to Arya, Eragon had mixed feelings about Angela. His whole mind was a churning cauldron, and each stray thought that delved into it only amplified its unstable reaction. To him, Angela was more than the innocent herbalist, and after what he witnessed when they battled Tenga, he couldn't help but feel a pang of fear itching his conscience, a form of warning meant to open his mind at the possible repercussions should Angela decide to lose her patience.

Of course, Eragon tried not to dwell on such thoughts much, especially when he knew that mind often amplifies a certain worry to vast proportions. After all, his worries might had been very well directed at the strange words used by Tenga, not Angela. _I'll just be nice to her,_ Eragon thought, smiling inwardly.

_Eragon, where are you going?_ At first, he was slightly confused by Arya's sudden words that rang in his mind. Bewildered, he looked around until he could see her form in the distance with the corner of his eyes.

_You are right, _he said, smiling sheepishly when he realized that his legs were carrying him in the wrong direction, far more left than his intended path. By making use of his superior speed, he ran towards Arya in the span of a few seconds, berating himself mentally for his absent minded gesture.

Apparently amused by his dulled senses, Arya returned him a smile while her hands rubbed against one another because of the cold temperature of the night.

"And how did you decipher that old dwarfish language?" Eragon attempted to break this awkward moment using any means necessary.

Arya analyzed him for a second before she replied calmly, "My duties as an ambassador do not only include a lot of traveling." She then pointed up ahead, where the ground leveled off, marking the descent from atop of the hill. After Eragon nodded, she continued, "there are obligations, such as a basic knowledge of traditions, history, and even older languages."

"That's quite remarkable," said Eragon, impressed by the rigors of an apparently menial task.

"Yes, although I never actually expected that language to come in handy."

Eragon felt at peace at seeing her so relaxed. It was as if a heavy burden had been lifted from her mind, allowing her to finally escape the constant tense atmosphere that was always present around her.

A cold, piercing wind blew across the plains, bending the grass blades submissively under its might. Shuddering as the cold air drained the heat from his body, Eragon briefly looked back at the ruined tower before facing forward in the direction Saphira was resting. Eager to be reunited with his partner of mind and rest under the warm, comfortable shelter provided by her, Eragon broke into a fast stride, closely followed by Arya.

**Long chapter! Yay! I hope it gets more reviews than usual. Why? Because it's long! Just kidding around, of course. The ending might be a little rough because it was my birthday and I didn't have enough time to do it right, but if it is that bad, I'll edit it tomorrow.( although most of you won't care anyway)  
**

** Ok so, there's a lot of things going on in here. I usually write a bit of what happens in the chapter here, but now, I'll leave you the honor of doing that. Tell me what you think and Merry Christmas!**


	18. Clash of Wills

**Review, comment, show me that I still have some readers, basically.**

Happiness and joy surged through Eragon during those delightful moments, when no danger, no reminisce of his ill fate or a single thought of a looming battle could possibly corrupt his mirth. His firm yet graceful steps barely ravaged the parched ground, yet his grace paled in comparison to Arya, who was agile as a deer and beautiful than any work nature would ever devise.

With the aid of his subtle link, Eragon easily located the lonely dragoness that seemed to resemble a small protuberance, a peculiar disturbance given the smooth plains that stretched far and wide. His speed died down progressively, the fast sprint turning into a sluggish trudge of feet.

However, even happy moments had to take their toll, and although Eragon's accelerated breath and bulged temple veins were a clear sign of a drain in his physical energy, the real problem was his throbbing head. The sudden and uncomfortable pain tormented him since recently, yet ignoring it was harder than he originally thought.

"You're still not quite as majestic as an elf," Arya said joyfully, using a single hand to sweep away her ruffled hair.

"I'm doing my best," Eragon responded, coughing a few times to erase the itching sensation that built up in his throat.

"And your endurance is not remarkable either," she teased, favoring him a warm smile.

"Then I will use the magical way the next time," he returned the favor.

"I wouldn't let you do that."

Eragon smiled at her persistence, "Why?"

"Because I wouldn't be impressed and it's still a waste of energy, not to mention irrational and stupid, considering the risks." Although she did her best to appear serious for emphasis, Eragon couldn't help but to chuckle.

"Not to mention that we'll have plenty of time to test our endurance, with Saphira forbidding us to take wings." Arya laughed quietly, a honey smeared and fluidic sound that could enthrall any being fortunate enough to hear it.

"I wouldn't mind," she said, putting an end to the pleasant sound that was soon replaced by the monotonous chorus of crickets. "At least I'll keep my feet on the ground."

"You will learn to love flying as much as I and Saphira." Arya smirked inwardly at his words, but Eragon quickly looked towards the sparkling dots on the sky, as to not let Arya realize that she was not quite as subtle as she used to.

They were both now close enough to Saphira to notice most of her prominent features. After the extended flight, it wasn't shocking that not even a disturbance, such as the pain he felt when Tenga's spell affected him, could break through her natural barriers. Although their bond was deep, a dragon's instinct was still stronger, as it had ancient roots embed deeply into her.  
Vapors steamed from her snout with each exhale, quickly dispersing into nothingness before one could even say a word. Arya quickly made her way towards the makeshift shelter provided by Saphira, crawling under her wing with great care as to not wake her up.

Eragon looked at her, then at the other wing, and nodded to himself. Because Saphira was sleeping peacefully on her belly, he didn't have to sleep near her haunch like the last time, probably disturbing Arya too because the lack of space and intimacy.

_May the stars watch over you,_ said Arya.

_May dawn greet you warmly, _Eragon responded, cuddling next to Saphira's ribs before he closed his heavy eyelids.

Because of what he has been through this day, Eragon had no particular dreams. It was more of a string of randomly placed scenes, which in most cases made no sense. A single one glued to him, of all the others. It was the image of Tenga and the sound of his powerful and strange words that rang in his mind clearer than before. Powerless and weak, he felt the urge to drop on the ground and wrap his arms around his body when an intense cold made him shiver.  
_  
__Little one…_

_Little one, _wake up. Eragon's eyes snapped open when he felt warm puffs of air on his torso, followed by a gentle contact. Almost instinctively, his hands darted forward, hugging the snout of the one responsible for his disturbance.

_Saphira, you are… _he paused, looking around with bewilderment. The warm surface of her wing, the smooth scales on which he leaned his body, it was all gone.  
_  
__Awake…_ he said, a bit displeased when he connected his shivering to Saphira's standing position.

_You are very perceptive,_ she said, pushing her snout forward into his chest while a hum of joy reverberated through the air, thanks to Eragon's special treatment. After he scratched her snout one last time in the area between her nostrils, Saphira withdrew her head and snorted unconscientiously. Being sensitive to the touch, it was one of the things she quite disliked. Still, this time she seemed not to pay any attention to it when her mighty legs carried her forward until she was at a safe distance from both Eragon and the sleeping form of Arya.

_Good hunting, _Eragon whispered in her mind.

_It better be,_ she said, unfurling her wings. _Else it's you two-legs who will cling to what nature has originally planned for you, walking._ After flapping her wings several times, she took off, veering left towards the forest and possible prey.

Eragon watched her carefully until she blended in with the darkness, then switched his gaze towards the Arya, who seemed undisturbed by gripping cold. He continued to watch her for a good few moments, captivated by any detail related to her perfect body, until his stomach grumbled, a mere reminder of his lack of attention regarding food.

Lazily, he lifted onto his legs, shuffling towards one of Saphira's saddlebags that usually contained dried fruits or nuts. He quickly lifted the flap that covered the small bag and inserted his hand nonchalantly, browsing its contents. His eyebrows deepened into a frown as he quickly retracted his hand.

_Barzhul!_ He cursed mentally, looking at the bag with enmity. It only contained several empty water skins, even though it was supposed to be filled with food provisions. The thought of not being able to sate his hunger until they would reach a forest made him feel grumpy and slightly angry at himself for being so careless.

Being unable to stay in one place for long, Eragon looked around until a particular shady figure entered his field of vision. A sigh escaped him when he realized who that was, and although he found the idea of talking with Angela quite revolting, she might at least tell him more about the journey that became more than he bargained for.

_You owl! _Angela screamed in his mind, dashing towards him at full speed. _I thought that spell would knock you out for the whole night! _Eragon frowned a little when she neared him, leaning his head on the opposite side when her cold hand touched his cheek.

"You were mistaken," he said hastily, distancing from her enough so that her touch would not bother him. His focus then rested on a bulged herbing pouch that hang from her belt, a single clue about why she wasn't around when he and Arya had found Saphira.

"Of course I was!" Eragon felt unusually tense during this short yet excruciating when Angela analyzed him with a piercing and solemn gaze, like he was a most unusual being.

"Fascinating," she concluded, smiling briefly.

"I suppose it is, especially when you cross the limit." Her smile died down a little, but otherwise, she seemed unaffected by his subtle hint that her audacity had not been well received.

"I did that in order to help you, silly boy," Angela said calmly, rubbing the herb pouch with slow moves. "Consider yourself privileged for being the vessel of such spell, else you would've been in a worse position."

At first, Eragon was just a little displeased by her nonchalant and eccentric behavior, but now, such a preposterous deed offended him. It wasn't just the spell that rendered him weak and powerless for an undetermined amount of time, but she also tattered his pride by doing something dangerous without his consent.

"So it was your spell that almost made me lose the grip on reality," he said with enmity, glaring at her coldly.

"Well, it could've been worse, but you…" Angela tried to say, but her weak voice was immediately overpowered by Eragon's high voice.

"Worse? Is that supposed to actually help me?"

"Yes, because you're resilient and I know you well." Angela tried to pat him on the shoulder reassuringly, but Eragon hit her hand before she even touched him.

"Don't take me as a fool who knows nothing!" Eragon snapped, his breath rate increasing as anger seeped through him. "I'm still a Rider, and I know things that are never going to be accessible to you!"

Angela rubbed her red tinted hand with displeasure, a look of disappointment on her face. Solembum, who had been purring softly until now, began hissing at him, his claws unsheathed.

"You are starting to scare me, Eragon," she said, lowering her body. A few strokes on the head of the werecat ended the brewing storm that seemed imminent, although Angela had yet to get over it.

"Solembum does not like you either."

Eragon paced around as a caged beast, scratching his head excessively due to nerves. This pitiful conflict was getting him nowhere, yet he couldn't muster enough courage to stand up against Angela and show her that he wasn't a toy caught between the ever moving paws of a cat. When he noticed Arya in the distance, her words whistled like a refreshing breeze through his mind, mending the ravine that punctured his flow of thoughts.

"You wouldn't want to fight a losing battle. I suggest you learn from the meek before you dare trespassing into foreign territory."

Angela kept staring at the grass below her feet when she suddenly jerked her head, "Quite a peculiar grasshopper that was. For a moment, I thought it would jump on me!"

Eragon's teeth gritted against each other, his fists clenched tight as if he wanted to prevent something irrational to come out of his mouth.

"I'm warning you, Angela. Stop taking me as a fool," he said gravely, frowning deeply at the skinny woman who did not even look intimidating at first glance, but her temper was enough to put a whole army in distress.

"Wrinkles."

"What?" Eragon asked, tapping his foot impatiently.

"Wrinkles make you ugly."

"Enough!" Eragon barked. This was more than mockery, it was defiance, and he could no longer accept it. After erecting impenetrable barriers around his mind, Eragon launched an attack against Angela's mind, straining his mind and body to its limits in order to penetrate her defense, which was unnaturally strong.

_I thought hunger would weaken you, but this is most fascinating, _Angela said in his mind while a chuckle escaped her. _I apologize my dear, but just like a kitten, I need to pinch the tip of your ear._

Realizing that offense would do no good, Eragon further strengthened the indomitable walls around his mind to prepare for the upcoming retaliation. However, what he experienced was not a normal wizard duel, but something totally different.

After Angela said something, his mind went completely blank. Try as he might to at least focus on a word, it would simply prove to be a useless chase. During this eerie moment, Eragon felt more powerless than ever. His hands began shaking slightly as panic engulfed him, and although he was still aware of his surroundings, he felt deprived of his ability to even think. However, this feeling was not totally unknown to him. He felt it before. He witnessed it through the eyes of an animal during his training as a Rider, a primitive and simple mind that could not possibly hope to piece up words.

"I suggest you restrain your curiosity. Else, it may trigger unforeseen consequences that will forever haunt you, and then, you will seek for the thing you lost until the very end of your days, clinging to whatever means accessible in order to reclaim what sheer stupidity has lost for you." By the end, her tone darkened and her features became deadly serious. Compared to a few moments ago, this was a totally different Angela.

Eragon stared at her with wide eyes, dumbstruck by what was happening to him. Suddenly, the fetters exerted on his mind vanished, and he could think properly again, although not as fast as before due to the unexpected shock.

"Wha…what…" he stuttered weakly, dropping onto the ground to alleviate some of the effort sustained by his trembling legs.

"Hmpf, that's what happens when you are as curious as a cat," Angela said, removing her pouch. "But I forgive you."

After inspecting the ground for a moment, she sat besides him, ruffling his hair slightly as her hand ran through the mangy strings. Solembum, who previously circled her, jumped into her lap, rubbing his head against her chest.

"You look bored. Fortunately, this night has been so productive that only certain mushrooms could please me more. Look!" she exclaimed with enthusiasm, showing him the contents of the herbing pouch. To him, it was just a mixture of colors that simply did not interest him.

"The yellow blades are sungrass, that's mageroyal, and I think at the bottom I have some peacebloom, although…" she then proceeded to list a mind numbing list of plants, even if most of them were not even actually in the pouch. Her words almost resembled a pestering buzz, and Angela seemed to had noticed his lack of focus, for she said.

"If you ever want to become my apprentice, I would be glad to instruct you well." She quickly buckled the pouch to make sure that the precious contents wouldn't leave its confines and got up, groaning slightly.

"Reflect on what happened dear, but don't let negative emotions overrun you. That makes you look ugly, and I like to see you laughing, even though that never happens," she said, moving further and further away from him. Eragon continued to look at her perplexedly for several minutes, a feeling of relief relaxing his tense muscles the moment she was far enough.  
Many times had his mind been assaulted by an endless array of vicious thoughts, each more demoralizing and harder to decipher than the others. Such moments of introspection allowed him to filter the tumultuous feelings, the troubling thoughts and the prospect of a dark future in order to understand them better, and possibly come up with a solution. It usually worked, and although answers were hard to find, the simple achievement of understanding his own problems offered a great relief.

This time, however, the process changed. He was the one to change it the moment he allowed the inner volcano to explode with dazzling force, a power that only fueled his irrational determination to stand up against Angela and uncover her secrets. Although Arya's advice now made him feel vulnerable and incapable of discerning the good advices from the unfounded ones, he did not blame her.

It was his fault, after all, for bringing this impending predicament upon him. Even if Angela was stubborn as a mule, what she did was merely defend herself, because it was he who sought to invade her mind. During that most peculiar moment he experienced, he felt a presence probing at his mind, but even if Angela could easily learn the secrets he carelessly boasted about, she didn't.

Eragon slammed his fist into the dirt, using his arm to fulfill what his weak legs could not. A weak groan escaped his parched throat as he got up, his ravenous eyes fixed on the horizon. Saphira was somewhere, far away, satiating her craving for meat while his stomach growled in displeasure. If there was any edible prey around, he wouldn't hesitate in ending its life to put at end to his hunger. All the self control, every principle he embed in his mind about the wrongs of harming an animal had all but evaporated. This wasn't the Eragon that walked out of Tenga's tower, but a devolved and primitive one that sought to accept his primordial needs and ignore a teaching that was ignored by his kin.

With so many thoughts and concerns crawling in his mind, the least Eragon wanted was to see Arya wake up and then tell her just how bad he misinterpreted her words. Although she was his closest friend, the sole being whose warm voice and soothing touch could calm him as much as Saphira, his pride refused to take a blow that could bend it thoroughly.

Yet, as much as he wanted to run away from his troubles, he couldn't. Saphira could return at any time, and the cold breeze of the night would eventually wake up Arya, who curled up her body to preserve her heat.

Sighing, Eragon lay down and tried his best to rearrange his thoughts and contain his negative emotions. Even if he did something wrong, at least Angela had forgiven him easier than he would have forgiven her. Although it seemed strange to him, he decided not to dwell on it any further until he would receive a hearty meal and rest properly.

** Angela is scary when she wants to, definitely. Now, I'm pretty sure I will get some OOC comments, especially about Eragon, that's why I ask you kindly to go read the FAQ posted on the first page, because I will add something that explains in more details why I do certain things that might surprise you. After all, this is a fanfic, and I am allowed to do anything I want.**

** Eragon is definitely not the most powerful being in Alagaesia, as much as some of you consider it. He had not inherited a great power, and such benefits seldom come for no costs. More about Angela will be explained in the future. Hoped you like this chapter. Review and comment please! Come on, give me a cookie!**


	19. Thoughts and worries

Glimmers of light subtly pierced the horizon, piercing the dark veil of the night which was coming to an end. Dawn had always been a symbol of renewal, where the dangerous and cold night would end and allow the animals who evaded the predators to live for another day. For him, however, it represented no escape, for it could not possibly alleviate his concerns.

Suddenly, Eragon got up with haste and broke into a sprint, running wherever his legs would take him. If lingering in one place failed to help him, then fatigue would surely numb his mind well enough as to prevent the thoughts from overwhelming him before Saphira would return.

While he ran through the open plain, he felt the sting of guilt prodding at his mind for breaking Angela's trust. She indeed crossed the limit, but in the end, she wasn't bearing any foul intentions. She had quickly forgiven him, but he had to do the same in his mind in order to be at peace with himself. After all, Angela had done something wrong, no matter her plight.

However, what never ceased to bother him was the way she shielded her mind. Not even Arya, Oromis or Glaedr could erect such powerful barriers. Galbatorix probably had a powerful defense, but he never tried to fight a losing battle, not when his enemy blatantly toyed with him. The realization of how weak he really was struck him hard, yet he quickly pushed that thought away like it was just a dried, forgotten parchment with a bad writing in it.

His stride lowered in speed as fatigue began claiming his limbs, yet his mind could not rest until Angela's mystery would be solved. How could she withstand his attack and not even flinch? Why could she so easily strip his defenses by just muttering a few words he had no knowledge of? Was she more powerful than a Rider? One's strength was determined not by sword proficiency, but by cunningness and quick thinking. Should she use the same spell on him, all his skills, his knowledge, would be rendered useless the moment she could easily end him with other quick spells. Although Eragon was right when he told her that the Riders had their own secrets, he now doubted his own claims when a being that could defeat a Rider like he was a mere soldier existed.

This thought alone further strengthened his resolution to find the Rock of Kuthian. A spark all forgotten since the defeat in Feinster reignited with dazzling flames, bolstering its vile flames until they threatened to incinerate a part of the teaching of Oromis related to the existence of certain negative emotions and thoughts that could corrupt one's mind. As much as Eragon tried to deny his instinct from taking over, he couldn't deny the need for power. He didn't want it, he needed it in order to defeat Galbatorix. That was what fate had decided for him, he never had a choice in it.

_I will become stronger, not for my sake, but for the others, _he thought with conviction, digging his feet hard in the soil, lifting a veil of dirt as his boots ravaged the superficial layer of the grassy soil. Instead of an elegant stop, however, Eragon's body tilted sideways, allowing gravity to work its way in bringing his downfall.

Tired, his heavy panting a testimony to his fatigued body, Eragon rolled on his back and looked towards sky melancholically, reminiscing the little and fragile moments of happiness that were too easily swayed by the horrors of the war.

A light breeze caressed his drenched body, and several birds passed by him, chirping joyfully while they chased one another. Thin clouds brazed the multicolored sky, making it look like a fairth made by an innocent and young elf whose untrained eye didn't catch the pink ripples on the horizon.

The recent exhaustion completely drained his already low reserves of energy, blocking his mind better than any mental shield could. After he wiped his brow to clear the drops of sweat that began slithering down his forehead, Eragon closed his eyes, allowing forgetfulness to offer him the much sought inner peace.

A strange object nudged Eragon in the arm, trying to push his bulk without much success. Ripped from his dreams by the sudden contact, he snapped his eyes open, using his other hand to defend himself against the invader of his privacy. A warm and smooth surface met his palm, and the hot puffs of air could only mean one thing.

After blinking several times to adjust his vision, he immediately realized why he had such a pleasant sleep and from where the warmness pictured vaguely in his dream came.

_You are like a hatchling born during the cold-freezing-water-season_, Saphira said, coiling her serpentine neck around his form, squeezing him slightly.

Eragon's face lightened in delight, a wide smile stretching across his face. Joy surged to him, as if a good old friend had returned from a forgotten trip and their reunion mended the scrapes of loneliness that allowed his happiness to seep through them, each drop heightening his longing and desperation for the only possible cure. And now, there she was, with her warm and caring voice and pristine, lustrous scales covering a mighty yet gentle being.

_Saphira, you…_ Eragon tried to say something, but instead, he hugged her neck, leaning his face on his makeshift shelter.

_You tried to crawl under my belly as if you were one of my kind._

Eragon was slightly overwhelmed by the intensity of her feelings. The love and affection she often displayed for him were something he cherished the most, for without Saphira, he alone couldn't exist as a complete being, for his inner harmony would be engulfed by a black void. This time, however, she surprised him in a pleasant way, and although they weren't split for more than a quarter of a day, Eragon still tried to question why Saphira suddenly became so affectionate towards him.

_A shame I'm not_, Eragon teased, his hand moving across her scaled neck. Saphira exhaled loudly, the gust of hot air quickly dispersing in the form of vapors. She said nothing, but he could still realize that his words were not wise, for Saphira suppressed a part of her mirth while she erected some walls around a particular area of her mind which was reserved for personal thoughts he seldom had access to.

Eragon mentally berated himself for being reckless yet again, this time with the being he loved the most. Maybe it was the recent stress and worries that clouded his mind to this extent, but the harm had already been done, and the least he wanted was to allow Saphira to feel alone to her own troubles, just like it happened to him.

_Saphira, I know I wronged you, and I apologize. It's just that…_ he paused, searching for the right words to describe his predicament. Although he felt reluctant in adding an extra burden on the mind of his partner of mind and soul, at the same time, he was aware that this was something he could never escape, not by himself.

_I did so many wrong things…_

_Little one, you are bearing no guilt. I am well aware of the reality._

Saphira retracted her neck and used her legs to trudge her bulk across the grass until she was pleased with her position. Then, a blanketing wing fell on top of Eragon, shielding him from the cold morning air. At the mention of her last words, a drop of sadness slithered its way past her defenses, but Eragon's churning mind considered it to be its own, ignoring it completely.

_I failed to defeat Galbatorix. Were it not for Arya, I would have lost my life…_ Eragon mused, allowing his thoughts to drift freely to Saphira, indirectly craving for the help and companionship during his troubled times.

_I stupidly pushed you away, and now, Angela might bear enmity against me for invading her mind during a moment of sheer irresponsibility__, _he thought to himself, for guilt alone didn't allow him to make it known, not even to Saphira.

_You are not an almighty being, Eragon,_ Saphira intervened, her voice sprinkled with a bit of indignation for his continuous self reproach. _We can only learn from our mistakes, and when we will face the eggbreaker again, we will tear him apart._

Eragon smiled inwardly at her encouragement and tried to get up, but Saphira's snout protruded from under her wing, her sapphire eyes staring at him intently.

_You are hiding something, and you know what that implies._

_I'm not!_Eragon said with conviction, trying to sound convincing, even if this battle had a single outcome.

_Something tells me not to trust you,_ Saphira added mischievously, digging her snout into his chest hard enough to send him tumbling.

_I've broken Angela's trust, _he conceded, a sigh of regret escaping him. With it, he felt a part of his worries vanishing. Even if he felt reluctant to say it, his mind urged him to do it, and no matter how hard he tried to deny it, he wanted the same.

Saphira withdrew her head and hissed threateningly, baring her teeth.

_But she had forgiven me,_ Eragon said with alacrity to escape the wrath of a dragoness. _And she never felt offended in the first place…_

Saphira's threatening snarl quickly turned into a docile display. Looking briefly at Eragon, the dragoness slowly settled her massive body on the ground.

Although he was a bit surprised by Saphira's sudden decision of not pursuing this topic further, he said nothing as he gazed into her eyes. The deep, sapphire colored eyes that he knew so well gleamed with a strange feeling, something that was as difficult to recognize as a drifting object amidst the swirling waters of the ocean.

However, he did not escape the consequences of his actions and, before he had the change to get up from his laying position, Saphira brought her snout forward, nuzzling his arm in a loving, yet rough way_, you act worse than a snooping hatchling when I leave you alone, little one. No matter the circumstances, you are bound to make a mistake, just like a young dragon whose unrestrained sense of curiosity drags him into all kinds of dangerous situations._

Eragon tried to appreciate the affection displayed by his partner-of-mind-and-soul as best as he could, but the force which pressed his arm against his body and the constant rubbing motion was more painful than pleasant.

_I…understand, Saphira… I will try not to-_ he managed to say before his thoughts were cut short, a cough escaping his throat when Saphira pressed her snout against his chest.

A moment after the sickly sound announced that something was amiss, Eragon felt the pressure vanish as Saphira lifted her head slightly, giving him more room. The warm gusts of air which rolled out of her nostrils ceased their delicate touch as she turned her head away, looking briefly into the distance before beginning to lick at one of her paws.

Eragon took this opportunity to reposition his body into a more comfortable position, snuggling closer to Saphira's ribs for extra warmth. Then, he placed his head on her large foreleg and turned on his back, facing the light blue membrane which did not allow even the tiniest specks of light to pass through.

_I know I am not as wise as any of the ones we are traveling with, but I don't need the wisdom of an ancient dragon to see that something is troubling you._

The sound of Saphira's tongue brushing against her sapphire scales stopped briefly before it continued once again, _is there any reason why should I be troubled by anything except the fact that you get in all kinds of troubles while I am away?_

Eragon smiled wryly, losing the count about how many times he heard that from Saphira. Still, he did not let his mind wander astray as he quickly arranged his thoughts, _I would not mind if that was indeed the cause of your worries, but it is not. _

Saphira was quiet for a moment, tending to her paw before she let out a soft growl_, you should not burden your thoughts with so many worries, little one. How can one fly peacefully if you don't release those weights?_

The memory of the events that quickly succeeded ever since Galbatorix's arrival quickly flashed through Eragon's mind. He remembered the emotions that took hold of him, the anger and the helplessness he felt after the dark king bested him as easily as a common soldier. He remembered how he snapped at Saphira, the only being he could share his burden with, and how he unwillingly hurt her.

Coming with his mind back to the present, Eragon extended his hand and brushed it against the tough, smooth scales of Saphira's foreleg, _I wish I could do that, Saphira, but it is impossible for me to be indifferent to the cause of your worries._

Saphira snorted, _you're being silly again, Eragon. Unlike you, I did not spend my time with that two legged herbalist whose tongue is more annoying than those pointy- sticks-with-metal-tip the two-legged use to catch their prey that sometimes try to pierce my hide._

Eragon sighed, his fingers playing with one of Saphira's scales,_ maybe you are right, but ever since you came back you were more different, more… affectionate_, Eragon said kindly, allowing his feelings to flow freely across the Rider's bond, _and you also mentioned about hatchlings several times._

No answer except a low growl came from Saphira as she turned her attention to her other paw, which she began to lick with soft tongue strokes.

After a short while, she said with a slight feeling of indignation, _you're thinking too deep, little one. Who else do you want me to compare you with? Thick-headed, pink skinned two legged hatchlings that cannot even move around properly?_

_I did not mean that, _Eragon said apologetically, resuming the soft, up and down move of his hand against Saphira's foreleg, _it's just that I could feel it and even see it in your eyes…_ he paused for a moment, trying to put his thoughts into words.

_You desire not to be alone anymore… you desire hatchlings._

Saphira's tail curled around her body, its thin, yet muscular tip gently pressing against Eragon's side, _I'm surprised that you managed to find out that easily_, she said, growling softly as she turned her head around, looking briefly at Eragon, _but it is best if you do not ponder upon this matter. As close as we may be to one another, you are still a human, and you cannot understand a great deal of things about a dragon's life_._ Every creature of this world, even those puny ants you found so fascinating, are born with a very important purpose: to reproduce, passing on their legacy to this land when they will be no more,_ she said with a bit of spite in her usual soft voice.

_I'm trying my best__, Saphira… and I know that you probably suffer because of the inability to have a mate. I know because I_- he suddenly stopped, wanting not to mention anything about Arya in a moment like this_, … I know that you felt like this just before we arrived in Elesmera._

Growling softly, Saphira placed her head on her left front paw, _and nothing changed, despite your assuring words that I will find a dragon that I can call my mate._

A slight feeling of sorrow, like the passing of a small torrent of water, washed over Eragon. Although Saphira closed her mind from him as to keep her thoughts private, Eragon could only imagine her true feelings, knowing that the future of her race was a dire one.

_She is right. Who am I to tell her reassuring words when I'm not in her predicament? I cannot truly understand her, not when our race flourishes while Thorn and Shruikan, the only mature dragons, are on the empire's side, not to mention that their minds are probably shattered due to the torture they have __to endure with each passing day_, Eragon thought within confines of his mind.

_I will do my best to put an end to this war, and then-_

Eragon was interrupted by the distinctive sound a dragon would make when it snarls, you are brave, _Eragon, and your resolution did not falter despite the hardships that got in your way, but ending the war is not a mere achievement. I would like nothing more than to dig my claws into the eggbreaker's frail body and ravage him until his life slowly sweeps away, but we are not prepared…_

Eragon frowned at Saphira's words, which lost any trace of her fierce self. _Where are the conviction and the determination to kill the king? Does she also think that I am not capable of defeating Galbatorix? _

Anger slowly seeped in Eragon's already tired mind as he thought more and more about what he would do, until the image of Galbatorix standing tall, sword in hand, appeared in his mind.

_Then we will train and become powerful enough to match his skill! The Rock of Kuthian may very well hold the power that would allow us to defeat him, and that'__s our priority now, _Eragon said, gently running his hand across Saphira's foreleg, I understand your pain, Saphira, but it will pass, just like the last time. After the end of the war, you could-

Saphira growled with indignation, a fierce growl which made Eragon's body jolt in response, _you're looking too far ahead, Eragon. The fate of this land is more uncertain than the life of a helpless deer who struggles to live another day without meeting the deadly claws of a predator that would put an end to its struggles._

Suddenly, Saphira lifted her massive bulk, tucking her wings next to her body as she moved forward.

_We should return to the others._

_That we have__, yet…_ Eragon thought, dreading the moment when he would have to face Angela once again. Before he could say something else, however, Saphira launched herself into the air and soared across the plains, leaving him but one option to make his way to their camp.


	20. Elven Threat

**Sorry for the delay. I was busy, so I had no time for writing. Hopefully, you can forgive me.**

A light breeze blew across the seemingly endless plain, bending the golden blades of grass and the other frail plants which appeared to pop up from every patch of soil, no matter how small it was. Nothing seemed to move in the vegetation which dominated the rolling plains until a lone human betrayed his position.

_What could Thorn do during this time? __He should have been back by now unless he's hunting with Shruikan,_ thought Murtagh as he stretched his body, a slight groan escaping him as he did so. He slowly got up, brushing the dust and remains of dried grass from his bloodied leather vest and leggings. A wry smile sculpted on his face at the uncomfortable, slightly sticky surface of the vest when he ran his hand across it. Most of the blood had been absorbed in the vest, and the once red color now turned into a sickly dark due to coagulation. The smell reeked of death as well, something which made Murtagh cringe whenever the putrid scent would enter his nostrils.

After he finished cleaning his clothes, Murtagh looked over yonder, but there was no sign of Thorn's whereabouts. With his mind drifting towards the young ruby dragon, the pungent smell of death slowly began to fade.

_I wish we could have spent more time together, away from the veiling mist of these permanent tasks handed by Galbatorix… Now that I think of it, I won__der how it would have been if I touched Thorn's egg long before I first met Eragon_… thought Murtagh with a bit of spite as the image of his brother standing in Saphira's saddle coalesced in his mind like a patch of smoke, suddenly condensing into a regular shape. Then, the image vanished as fast as quick as it took shape as a blast of red energy erased its existence.

_I guess it would have been a much…different…story_.

A slight metallic noise was made when Zar'roc was yanked out of its sheath. Placing its tip firmly onto the ground, Murtagh used the sword as a support to lie down comfortably without too much trouble. Carefully, he placed it onto his lap. The blade, which was usually gleaming every time sunlight would reflect off its surface, appeared to had lost that property as a thin layer of dried blood covered the tip, all the way towards the middle while smaller drops were splashed over the lower part, including the pommel.

Exhaling, Murtagh placed the sword on the ground. With his right hand, he ripped a small bundle of driedgrass and then proceeded to clean the sword, his face bearing a solemn, yet serious expression that would confuse anyone who would try to decipher his emotions.

_I did what __I had to in order to protect Thorn and myself. There were no other options, not after Galbatorix took control of my body and used my hand to extract his vengeance upon that Rider._

Quickening his up and down motion, Murtagh threw the grass aside before he ripped another bundle, replacing the former one which appeared to have scratched off Zar'roc's color.

Slowly, the blade began to regain its original color as Murtagh's persistence began to pay off. Placing his hand on the pommel, the young Rider quickly flipped the sword, restarting the vigorous rubbing motion.

Although his mind was focused on this simple task, the recent events seemed to give him no peace, even though Murtagh tried his best not to ponder on them too much. But it was not that easy, not when his own hand ended the life of a Rider older than Galbatorix himself, a potential savior that, through his knowledge, could have known a way to break the king's grip that bound Murtagh to his will.

After a few more strokes, Murtagh discarded the grass and inspected the blade briefly before he placed it into the sheath. The embrace of the earth met him once again as he lay on the ground, shifting his body to the side for a better position while his mind drifted towards the only being that understood him better than anyone.

Even though he was happy that his dragon became so attached to Shruikan, he could not help but feel a slight pang of regret in his heart. Murtagh only spent time with Thorn during missions and sometimes after them, but that was all of it. Most of the time, Thorn would rush straight to Shruikan when their task would be done. Even the comfort and the protection provided by the warm body of his partner-of-soul-and-mind became a distant memory as Murtagh often had to sleep in the stiff, uncomfortable cot while Thorn slept alongside Shruikan.

Murtagh eyed the grass with nostalgia as he remembered the time when Thorn hatched for him, a time when the two of them were inseparable. Those were one of the most memorable moments of his life, and the thoughts and the misery of being a slave to Galbatorix paled in comparison to the happiness he felt. He was not alone anymore when the ruby dragon chose him as his Rider.

Murtagh extended his hand, looking briefly at his Gedwey Ignasia before he slapped himself onto the head, _what am I thinking? I should be happy that Thorn found someone that cares for him during these miserable times of captivity._ But Murtagh was not convinced, for he cared for his dragon as much as Shruikan did.

_He is a dragon, so it should not be surprising that he enjoys the presence of one of his kin more than mine… Something like this was bound to happen anyway, so pondering about this __is futile. _

Murtagh quickly cut the flow of memories, forcing his mind to think of something else. The calming rustle and the gentle moves of the grass blades helped lessen a bit of his worries. Being alone in the middle of the wilderness made him feel at peace with himself. The serene atmosphere was so different compared with Uru'baen and its vile chambers.

The distinctive flapping sound of wings could be distinguished from the rustling of the plants, and Murtagh quickly looked towards the sky. He was a bit disappointed when the coal black form of Shruikan was the one approaching, with no signs of the glistening ruby hide of his dragon.

Murtagh crossed his arms, watching with interest as the large bulk of Shruikan touched the ground, sending vibrations through the soft soil while dust was blown into the air. Forcing his eyes shut to prevent the dust from entering his eyes.

For a dragon his age, Shruikan was not as large as one would expect. Although his wingspan was considerably larger than Thorn's, his body size was relatively small compared to the gargantuan form of the golden dragon, which was at least three times larger than Thorn. Shruikan, however, was easily twice as tall compared to Murtagh, and his impressive height, the sharp, ivory claws and the pristine horns and spikes that ran across his back gave him an intimidating appearance.

The thick dust barely dissipated when the lustrous blackness of Shruikan's bulk occupied a large part of Murtagh's view. Murtagh opened his mind so he could speak to the black dragon, but he was beat to it as Shruikan lowered his body into a crouch, bringing his large snout to Murtagh's eye level.

_We__ need to skip the proper greetings, son of Morzan, for a group of elves is making its way towards this location. Climb on my back and let us fly swiftly, for Thorn is no match for those enraged two legs. _The deep, yet calm and smooth voice of Shruikan made Murtagh flinch in surprise as he could barely notice when the dragon entered his mind.

Shocked by the disturbing piece of information, Murtagh could barely find his words to speak as he gazed into the amber eyes of Shruikan.

_Why could he not come with you then? It is not necessary to fight the elves as long as we fly high in the sky._

Shruikan growled disapprovingly, _I thought you already knew the answer to that question, Murtagh. Thorn's wound is not a superficial one meant to inflict temporary pain. It is much more than that, for a dragon's tail provides the necessary balance while flying. Losing a part of it, even a small one, is a heavy blow dealt to any dragon, and the gold one knew this as he aimed to inflict as much damage as he could before his demise_.

His amber eyes, a fountain of knowledge, were tarnished by grief and worries, and Murtagh could not help but feel privileged to be in the presence of such a wise, majestic dragon. Wanting not to seem disrespectful, Murtagh took a few steps towards him and extended his hand, touching the warm, smooth black scales. The moment was short lived as Shruikan snorted a puff of smoke, lifting his head off the ground.

_The formalities your race is used to__ are unnecessary in a time like this, Murtagh. Make haste, for we know better than anyone what elves are capable of when enraged. _

_Y…yes I completely agree with you_, Murtagh coughed sickly as the black smoke irritated his nostrils, but he quickly exited the intoxicating atmosphere as he made his way towards Shruikan's side.

Murtagh frowned when his eyes set upon the natural gap which was not only missing the sharp spikes, but a saddle as well. _This is definitely not one of my good days_, thought Murtagh as he jumped onto Shruikan's back. Or at least he tried to, for his feeble jump was anything but high enough to reach Shruikan's back.

Murtagh tried frantically to grab onto something, but the smooth black scales were anything but a good support for him to climb on. Falling onto his back, Murtagh released a loud groan at the impact.

Shruikan snarled in irritation and turned his head around so he could face the pathetic sight, _you are disturbingly clumsy today, small one_.

Murtagh smiled wryly, feeling a bit apprehensive at the sight of the sharp, exposed teeth of Shruikan's bared snout, _maybe I am, but you cannot put the blame on me, seeing as this is the first time I need to ride upon your back_.

_I could carry you in my claws if climbing upon my back is difficult for you_, growled Shruikan playfully.

Murtagh had a hard time in understanding the growl Shruikan just released. He learned from Thorn that dragons used a variety of growls in order to convey their emotions, and they instinctively knew their meaning. But for Murtagh, who was a human, it was almost impossible to distinguish their growls, even if the intensity, the frequency and the tone differed from one another.

_N-no… no that- that would not be needed_, said Murtagh with quickness as he remembered one time when Thorn did this to him. The excruciatingly uncomfortable position, the feeling of something pressing against his body and the powerful air currents that zipped by him forced Murtagh vow he would never experience something like that again.

With incredible speed, Murtagh rose from his position and jumped as high as he could, landing straight onto the gap. Immediately after that, he released a painful groan as the impact of the landing was harsher than he had expected.

_You escaped this time, small one, but we still wasted unnecessary time because of you. Should something happen to Thorn, I promise that next time we will fly together I will not offer you the privilege of staying upon my back_, snorted Shruikan as he rose from his position.

Murtagh quickly grabbed the large ivory spike in front of him to avoid falling.

_Privilege? It is anything but a privilege to have your legs skinned off by__ the terrible, tough scales of a dragon_, thought Murtagh.

Shruikan lowered his body into a crouch, then leapt as high as he could, leaving deep gashes into the soft ground. The powerful beat of the massive wings created powerful air currents which bended the frail plants as the dragon flew off.

_What is it you think, Murtagh_? Came the unexpected voice of Shruikan.

_I-I said that- I am… grateful for being able to fly onto your back. I have… always wondered if you are a better flier than Thorn_, stuttered Murtagh as he cursed himself for forgetting about his mental link with Shruikan.

_I never thought __such menial question would concern you, small one, but you can come and sit on my back while I fly with Thorn and help him hone his aerial skills. _

_That is something I cannot refuse, _thought Murtagh with a bit of reluctance as he looked at the ground below, which passed by with great speed.

Shruikan flew at a relatively low altitude to avoid wasting more energy for the little benefit the air currents provided. Briefly before meeting with Thorn, Shruikan and Murtagh discussed different ways of dispatching the group of elves as effectively as possible while also preventing them from gaining the upper hand.

It did not take long for them to reach Thorn's location due to Shruikan's great speed. As soon as he had the occasion, Murtagh opened his mind to Thorn, allowing feelings of joy to flow across their bond. The ruby dragon moved in to greet the two of them as soon as Shruikan touched the ground.

Murtagh quickly dismounted Shruikan and patiently waited for Thorn and Shruikan to exchange their usual greeting by rubbing each other's neck with their snouts. Shortly after that, Thorn moved towards Murtagh and brought his snout down, gently nuzzling the Rider's shoulder.

_I am so glad that the elves did not reach you before I did_, said Murtagh, rubbing his hand along the red scaled snout of Thorn.

The dragon hummed in pleasure at the contact, _I am not a defenseless buck, Murtagh, and I certainly do not have the mind of one. If they would come, I would have fled before they even knew it._

Murtagh released a low chuckle as he continued to stroke the smooth scales with his hands, _I never doubted your decisions or your fighting capabilities, oh mighty dragon._

Shruikan approached, brushing his snout against Thorn's side. Thorn released a surprised growl and turned his head around to check on the source of the disturbance. Murtagh laughed at Thorn's quick reaction, which looked like someone poked him with a hot stick.

His laughter was immediately silenced when Thorn turned his head around, snarling in irritation.

A deep growl silenced the both of them as Shruikan lowered his body onto the ground, _there will not be long until the elves will be here, younglings. Their senses may not be as fine as a dragon's, but they are still superior to a normal human._

Murtagh closed his eyes, opening his mind to his surroundings. A multitude of insects and insignificant life forms were living in the vicinity: in the soft soil, on the different plants, on the blades of the grass, or in the air where their buzzing would annoy a traveler to no end.

Murtagh concentrated, extending his mind even further, but there were no signs of the brilliant consciousnesses of the elves.

_I cannot reach them with my mind. They must still be away from our location, or they__ simply decided not to pursue us anymore._

Shruikan growled, summoning Murtagh's attention, _they did not. I have caught the distinctive scent of one of them on the breath of wind. _

Thorn's nostrils twitched as he sniffed the air, _Shruikan is right._

Murtagh sighed, _since there is no other way around it, we should make a plan. _He paused, delving deeply into his knowledge of elven tactics in order to overpower them swiftly._ Shruikan, their numbers will influence our decisions greatly. Do you know how many are they?_

The black dragon looked towards Murtagh, the tip of his tail swishing from side to side, _there were six of them, but more could join on the way and reinforce their numbers._

Murtagh gripped his chin with his right hand, thinking. _Their numbers may not be a problem for the three of us, for Shruikan has slain more experienced elves, but the problem lies in their coordination. If they fight like a true team, coordinating their offense and defense, they may pose a serious problem._

Murtagh rose up from his position, frowning, _I will cast a few preemptive wards to block certain spells._

Thorn growled softly, _wards take a great deal of energy every time they deflect an attack, Murtagh. If you protect the three of us, your energy will be spent long before the battle would come to an end._

Murtagh smiled as he put his hand on Zar'roc, _this blade has it, but I prefer to keep it for when the need will be dire. As for the energy needed for the wards, it will be supplied from the eldunarya._

Murtagh could see that both Thorn and Shruikan were not pleased with his decision, but none of them made any visible objections.

Connecting his mind with the captive soul of a dragon, Murtagh began to chant in the ancient language, saying words that would protect them against the biting cold, the toughness of the earth, the blazing fire and the whistling wind. He finished by muttering the needed enchantments that would protect him and the dragons alike by any metal that would strike them.

Murtagh gasped as he finished the enchantments, but did not feel any strain on his body after casting the necessary wards.

_The wards I cast use a fixed amount of energy that I supplied before beginning the spell__ and their effects would falter as soon as that energy is depleted._

_You__ have made a wise choice, Murtagh. Wards are dangerous, especially when there is not knowing of the capabilities your enemy possesses._

No words were exchanged between the trio for a short while. Murtagh and the dragons exchanged silent and uneasy looks between them. Murtagh easily noticed that Thorn was the tensest out of the three, for he was also the one that experienced terrible things during this day.

Murtagh also felt nervous every time he thought about how the clash between him and the elves would end. Different scenarios took place in his head while he tried to imagine the best way in dispatching them all swiftly and without mercy, but there was no easy way around it. Every time he thought that a strategy would pay off, one of the elves would either incapacitate him with magic or sneak behind and attempt to kill Thorn. It was this thought of being unable to protect Thorn that slowly induced this state of uneasiness and kept him away from finding a good offensive plan.

_Do not worry about me too much, little one, for I will not allow any elves to part me from you. Their puny swords will not even inflict a scratch on my scales as long as I will tear them apart with fang and claw_, came Thorn's soothing voice.

Murtagh took a step back, apparently surprised that Thorn found out about his inner thoughts, _I know, Thorn, and I do not doubt your strength even a little. But…these elves cannot be compared to ordinary men. I cannot help but think that one of them will manage to parry my sword, dodge Shruikan's claws and evade your flame breath, and if that happens_…

Murtagh barely had time to try and put his emotions in order when he found himself on his back, pinned by an angry red dragon.

_That will not happen, little one, for you underestimate the capabilities of a dragon. Our fine senses allow us to quickly react to incoming attacks, and our enemies know best what happens when they pit their useless metal objects against our fangs and our claws_, snarled Thorn, bringing his snout dangerously close to Murtagh's face.

_You…made your point_, Thorn, apologized Murtagh as drops of saliva slowly dropped onto his shoulders, chest and even face. Pleased with his achievement, Thorn retracted his snout, but not before nuzzling Murtagh's face.

Murtagh smiled wryly as he quickly extended his hand, ripping a bunch of dry grass so he could clean the viscous saliva off his face.

Thorn gave him a strange look, but quickly changed his gaze towards Shruikan as the black dragon was most likely conversing with him.

Murtagh almost managed to clean a particular large drop of saliva that stained his shoulder when Shruikan's deep growl alerted him.

_They are here, young ones_.

**I hope it's not as bad as I think it is, since it's one of my clumsy updates. After I had almost done the Roran chapter, a revelation struck me, and with my current plot, delaying the Murtagh chapters would lead to some annoying inconsistencies. I know there's some lack of description, but I can't fix it now at 3:30 AM in the morning, not when tomorrow is a big day.**

** Comment, critique, or even post a message, they all help me one way or another. The next chapter is going to detail this second battle, where the elves are actually prepared to face Murtagh. It's going to be a very interesting fight, I assure you.**


	21. A Clash of Swords

Having little time to decipher the words which rang in his head, Murtagh slowly got up, brushing his hand against the grass to clean the sticky dragon saliva that made his skin slimy as a snail's body. Immediately after he got up, he couldn't help but sketch a smile at the sight presented in front of him. Two distinctive colored tails were swishing from side to side, resembling a predator whose brimming excitement could barely be contained before a pounce.

With no other words spoken mentally or growls used to express different feelings and emotions, Murtagh raised an eyebrow quizically and looked in the same direction as Thorn and Shruikan, curious to find the culprit behind this unusual silence. Nothing seemed to be different aside from the golden field with its lethargic grass that moved and bended every time the wind would blow.

Concealing everything from view, the thick vegetation which dominated the plains seldom betrayed its intimate secrets, or its inhabitants alike. Murtagh sighed and prepared to turn around when a glimmer of brilliant light reflected by a shiny object attracted his attention. It was an all too familiar sight, yet even now, after all this time, it would send a cold shiver down his spine: the elves had arrived.

Feeling a tinge of worry crawling inside him, Murtagh walked with alert steps towards the two dragons which were lying on the ground close to each other. Jumping past the black tip of Shurikan's tail, which for some reason was in a constant motion, Murtagh walked forward, ducking slightly so he could safely pass past the black wing which was naturally tucked against the side of the onyx scaled dragon? To avoid triggering a defensive reaction from Shruikan, Murtagh made his presence known by running his hand across the warm, velvety wing membrane as he moved forward. Only when he reached the black dragon's left foreleg, which was quite large in both diameter and height, he slowly placed his hand on it and spoke, _I am not as experienced as you are, Shruikan, for you have seen more horrors than I can ever imagine and fought more people than I can tackle in ten lifetimes._ He paused for a second, a bit uncertain on what he was about to suggest._ What would you say about using your flames to distract them while I finish them one by one? Zar'roc has no problems in cutting through any kind of ward, no matter how strong it is._

The contact immediately summoned the attention of Shruikan. Turning his large head around, the dragon spoke_, you have a sharp mind for one that has yet to reach adulthood, Murtagh. We could certainly do as you say, but none of the elves would be incinerated as long as they have wards, and your visibility will be as low as theirs when we unleash our fires, something which they can exploit as well._

_Then I will have to do my best after the fight begins. Exploiting their weaknesses is crucial if I am to find a proper way to counter their attacks and finish them off_, thought Murtagh to himself as he stared in the distance.

A gust of wind blew across the plains, flattening the skyward plants under its might. Murtagh's long, black hair rippled into the wind as the powerful breeze passed by, revealing the previously concealed bodies of the group that was moving closer and closer towards them.

_We should prepare for battle_, said Murtagh apprehension present in his rough voice. He only managed to take a small step before an unexpected force nudged his body to the point where he almost lost his balance. Turning around in an instant, Murtagh was pleasantly surprised in finding himself looking into Shruikan's large, amber eyes.

_Take heart, young one, for every enemy, no matter how fast and proficient with magic it is, has a weakness which can be exploited. Keep your mind clear and your sword steady, for when the battle begins your concentration becomes your skill, _said Shruikan, pushing his snout closer towards the Rider.

Smiling, Murtagh placed his hands on the smooth black scales as a gust of warm air enveloped his body, causing him to shudder slightly, _your words will not go unnoticed… I promise… _whispered Murtagh, rubbing Shruikan's snout for a brief while before he broke the contact by moving forward, stopping right besides Shruikan's clawed forepaw.

The gust of wind diminished in intensity after a moment. The plants slowly rose from their bended position, giving the landscape the same look as it had before: everything around was bearing the mark of the autumn season as the different nuances of gold surrounded the three companions. But they were no longer alone.

Due to superior speed and their nimble, yet silent footsteps, a group of proud elves soon joined Murtagh and the two dragons, stopping dead in their tracks at a certain distance. Six in numbers, the long hair of the elves was hanging loose into the wind while their identical green tunics and brown leggings were decorated with intricate lines of gold.

Four of them were male, and two female, but gender meant little when their stares, which seemed devoid of any kind of emotion, seemed to tap into anyone's soul While their clothes were the same, the equipment differed according to their preference and specialization. One of the females held firmly a thin staff with an emerald crystal on its end while the other one had a fine bow with an arrow notched on it, ready to fire deadly arrows at the unsuspecting foes.

The four males, whose hair was almost the same nuance of gold that you could hardly differentiate, were equipped with fine swords, each elf caring one such blade.

Murtagh's eyes moved from elf to elf quickly as he tried to learn as much as he could from their look and their equipment before the impending clash. It was obvious that the two females were not the type that would engage in close combat, while the males lacked the possibility of attacking from afar except with spells, which would probably be used as a last resort. Any experienced close quarter fighter would know that using a spell was the wrong thing to do, even when put into a dangerous situation. Should spells be used, all the attributes that strengthen the warrior would diminish, making him an easy target for faster and stronger adversaries.

_If those four have something in their heads instead of pebbles, they will not exchange their movement speed and lightning fast attacks for the use of a spell which might be blocked by wards. Still, despite their lower potential when it comes to magic abilities, they are the most dangerous ones for they can inflict damage when I least expect. It's best not to let them sneak behind me or the dragons._

Murtagh's gaze switched towards the female which carried the bow, _that archer is going to be a nuisance for as long as she remains alive, for my wards will most likely fail to block all the arrows fired at me, and when that happens… No, she must go down as quickly as possible, else I will have to dispose of her bow and quiver somehow. A warrior without a weapon is as good as an inexperienced trainee._

The Rider's eyes drifted towards the last elf, the female which was placed at the left edge of the group. A belt with a few minuscule objects that glimmered in the sunlight particularly attracted Murtagh's attention.

_That one is definitely a spell caster, and probably an experienced one too. The staff she carries and the belt must not be ordinary items seeing as no other elf I met carried such objects, not even the Rider. No, her higher rank and expertise with magic were well known by the other elves if she was gifted with such precious items. The energy she has probably stored in those gems pales in comparison to a large eldunari, but even so, she has a huge advantage over the other elves. She must go down as quickly as possible, for her spells would greatly help her allies and inflict serious damage if she chooses to go all out on the offensive._

_Even Galbatorix would be proud of your thinking, Murtagh. We'll assist you if-_

Despite his reluctance to do so, Murtagh was forced to cut Shruikan off, _take care of yourselves and finish off the swordsmen. This way, chasing after them would not be a problem seeing that they have to take risks if they are to participate in this fight._

Shruikan growled approvingly, an act which triggered a response from the elven war party.

"Just as I suspected… Murtagh, the king's servant, Thorn, the vile, twisted beast, and also Shruikan, the king's abomination… I feel my eyes being stabbed with ice cold daggers for every moment I stare at you, vile killers," shouted one of the male elves.

Thorn snarled viciously at the directly thrown insults, but Shruikan quickly intervened.

_Do not let their words affect you, young one, for they are part of the poison that affected their souls when you unwillingly ended the life of Oromis and Glaedr. Focus your attention on the upcoming fight and shield your emotions, for words can be as sharp as a sword, _said Shruikan calmly.

Thorn's snarl diminished, having acknowledged the words of the elder dragon. Murtagh also took a moment to throw a quick look at Shruikan, who did not seem perturbed at all by what he just heard.

_It must be hard for a dragon to withstand such vile insults, but Shruikan ignored them like they were insignificant words. That's probably because his pride was already tarnished after he was forced to fight for Galbatorix, _thought Murtagh, feeling more pity for the black dragon the longer he stared at him.

"See his reaction, my brethren! The red beast thirsts for blood as red as its scales after they were covered with the blood of our masters," shouted the same elf, yet the others seemed impassive to his words.

_Maybe the others realized how much of a pest can that arrogant prick be, _smiledMurtagh while his mind thought of different ways on how to take advantage of the current situation. It was clear that the other elves were not that different from the one with the big mouth, but maybe, just maybe they were not as fanatic to this cause as their companion.

Shifting his weight from one leg to another, Murtagh tried to piece together the myriad of words that went through his head in the most effective way possible.

"Elves, I have nothing against you, and believe me that I want to stop this conflict as much as you do. I deeply regret for killing your masters, but it was not my intent to strike him down. Galbatorix forced me to-"

"I heard this story before, and I do not believe it the slightest. Do you think that those who dyed the earth red with their blood when your blade went through their chests believed your lies?" asked the elf mockingly.

Murtagh opened his mouth to speak, but he was cut when another one of the male elves interrupted him.

"You killed many, son of Morzan, for you bear your father's legacy. Just as he enjoyed extracting misery from his victims, so did you when you became Galbatorix's hand of vengeance. We cannot simply put our weapons aside and forget what you have done, even if you want to change. It's far too late for clemency."

Murtagh clenched his teeth as a drop of rage ignited inside him," I did not do it willingly! I wish you were in the same position I was put in, and then see if you would have done better than I did."

There was silence between the group of elves until the female with the staff stepped forward, "You lived a harsh life, Murtagh, harsher than any of us, and it is unjust for us to condemn you here and now for your actions, for I believe that someone can truly change if their will is strong and pure. But even if we want to, we cannot avoid the clashing of swords and magic. After Oromis and Glaedr fell lifeless from the sky, a part of us swore in the ancient language that we will put an end to your life when we our paths converge. Our choices are limited, just like yours."

_They went farther than I have imagined,_ added Shruikan.

Murtagh bit his lip at hearing the elf's words. Fight seemed unavoidable as promises in the ancient language could not be reversed or were notoriously hard to, depending on the uttered words.

"And what if I manage to change my true name? What if I will be free of Galbatorix's grasp?"

The female opened her mouth to speak, but the same arrogant elf that spoke first cut her.

"Do not let his lies taint you, Isindrel. A murderer like him could never change, and even if he does I will not spare him. With all of them gathered here, we have the chance to rid Alagaesia of their filth for good. Fortune itself smiled upon all of us when a chance like this was offered to me on the same day when you have slain our masters, traitor!" shouted the elf loudly, readying his sword in the process.

The enraged elf quickly dashed towards Murtagh, sword ready to cut anything it would meet in its wake.

Murtagh quickly grabbed Zar'roc, unsheathing the red blade with equal haste. Zar'roc clashed with the glimmering, one handed sword of the elf as the two blades met just above Murtagh's shoulder. Murtagh was immediately pushed into defensive as he parried a multitude of fast, quick attacks until a torrent of black flame was unleashed upon the elf. Murtagh disengaged, rolling away from the inferno just before the flames touched him. He landed onto his knees, getting ready just in time to parry a savage blow from the elf that came out of the flames unharmed.

Focusing his might into a powerful blow, he brought his sword down with all the force he could muster. Murtagh's defense faltered under the impressive force the lean elf put into his attack. The carvings of an elven artisan were easily visible as the blade inched closer to Murtagh's face, slowly advancing as the elf kept pushing Murtagh's sword down. Murtagh's arm and joints felt like snapping under the enormous strain he was put under.

Feinting, he leaned left and ducked with great speed, slashing at his shins as he performed a full spin the moment his sword was intercepted, attacking from an unprotected side. Murtagh's eyes narrowed with awe when the elf jumped and thrust his blade forward, trying to impale through his chest. Although this blow was easily deflected, Murtagh was taken aback by the elf's combat prowess, his morale suffering a greater blow than his sword. If every elf was capable as he was, then this fight would stress his abilities and resilience to their limits.

It wasn't just skill this elf possessed, but his unusual speed offered him an almost unnatural advantage. Although dodging was his weak point, a disengage often followed an almost successful attack. After that, it was impossible for Murtagh to attack, for his blade dance and the fast swerves posed utmost danger in case he would lose his concentration and even dare to go all offensive.

Murtagh's stamina seeped like blood from a dead opponent because of the intensity of the attacks and the ferocity displayed by the elf. Droplets of perspiration covered his red, furrowed brow and began slithering down like liquid snakes, threatening to obscure his vision when his defense was in peril. After he performed a whirlwind of steel, the elf jumped left, a devious smile on his face.

Using his great speed, he placed his blade horizontally and charged from the left, his legs launching him faster than a dragon who was about to launch itself into the air. Murtagh was confident that he can parry what seemed to be a reckless attack, but when his sword was ready to meet metal, it failed to happen. The elf disappeared.

A column of fire erupted from behind him, and in that moment, Murtagh's shock found an explanation. Reacting on instinct, Murtagh attempted to drop down, but his move was slow and could not compete with the fast strike of the elf.

"Feel my blazing fury racking your being, vile traitor." The elf smirked, cackling loudly. "I will end you- as you- ended them." Murtagh gritted his teeth, maintaining a heroic effort not to scream. His left shoulder seared with pain that traversed his whole body, numbing his senses. It seems that the elf was not in a good condition either, for his labored breath and dreary expression were but a testimony to his impressive display. Teleportation over a distance, as insignificant as it was, put great strain on the body.

Smelling the alluring scent of victory, the elf withdrew his sword from Murtagh's shoulder and prepared to land the final blow. This time, it was Murtagh who surprised the elf with deadly cunningness and sheer resilience.

_Pain suppression_, Murtagh muttered, his lips barely betraying the words for this lesser dark magic spell. Naturally, a pain of such intensity would paralyze his body, and the withdrawal of the weapon responsible for the wound would only make it worse, but due to this spell, Murtagh tricked his own senses, ignoring the sole element that would otherwise bring forth his downfall.

As the elf withdrew his sword and prepared one final strike, Murtagh rotated his body, using his numb left arm to knock his sword sideways as he performed a circular spin. Zar'roc moved through the air at an incredible speed, catching the elf unaware of his impending demise. A loud scream followed by drops of blood was released the moment when the tip of the blade raked the soft flesh of the elf's abdomen, whose evasive move came too late to save him from this injury.

"Don't…be too confident about that," said Murtagh, steadying his grip on Zar'roc. Even if his face was contorted with seething pain, the fire never left the elf's eyes. Screaming loudly, he unsheathed two small daggers he carried at his sides and lunged towards Murtagh in a flurry of wild stabbing. Jumping back, Murtagh tried to keep as much distance between him and the elf as possible, slashing with Zar'roc every time the elf would get close. However, the speed of his adversary was still great, and it did not take long until the wounded elf managed to find an opening and push the blade aside with one twist of his dagger. Preparing to take advantage of this opening, the elf prepared to plunge the dagger he carried in his other hand into Murtagh's neck. He almost succeeded when he was smacked into his arm with the pommel of Zar'roc.

Taking advantage of the momentary distraction, Murtagh quickly rolled to the side, plunging his sword through the elf's side. Screaming in agony, the elf looked at his tormentor venomously, silent words escaping his lips as his demise was at hand.

Flickering blue flames began to take shape on the ground around the elf, but the spell was not able to reach its completion as Murtagh denied it with one simple move of his sword. A river of blood erupted from the elf's neck, followed by a sick thud. The dull gold of his hair mixed with the crimson liquid, replacing the beauty of the living with the sinister nuances of death.


	22. Might and Magic

_Thorn, Shruikan, circle them from above._ Using the distraction of the elves to take off, the two dragons did as Murtagh told them. Thorn still had difficulties with his now clumsy body, but raw effort won his struggle against balance and gravity.

Murtagh was breathing hard and fast, perspiration drenching his brow. The watery beads streamed down his forehead, slithering across his face until they fell onto the bloody soil. The silvery eyes of the elf stared at Murtagh, increasing the sickening sensation which took hold of him. Although he was used to the pungent smell of blood, its decaying color and the sinister image of death, some encounters still made him feel uneasy.

_I can't make it_, Murtagh thought. _Not unless my strength equals their numbers, by some miracle of chance._ He looked into the distance. The elves, probably puzzled by the recklessness of their hasty companion and the dragons adopted a new strategy, were now dividing new tactics. Handling one Rider and two dragons was no easy feat, even for proficient warriors and experienced spell casters. Still, it was only a matter of time until they would make their move, and the airborne dragons still awaited Murtagh's command.

From their position, Murtagh could tell that the melee fighters would charge at him. With three against one, he would die faster than the decapitated elf besides him. Blood oozed from his left shoulder, his arm hanging uselessly, numbed by the vicious strike which pierced through his shoulder.

He needed power, speed, agility, but before all, a body that could keep up with the three elves long enough to dispose of one. By having Shruikan land in their midst, they would scatter like confused sheep, yet their determination and the hatred they bear for the black dragon might put him in danger. Still, this was the only distraction he could use properly, and time was of the essence.

But how? What magic could possibly enhance his physical capabilities beyond their limitation? The pressure forced upon his mind was not helping, and the only solution at hand was a dark spell of moderate power which Murtagh had never used before.

_Dolagorn the Mighty__ was his name... Together with Siran and Lorfing, they have created a disaster of beautiful proportions. At the dawn of the elven civilization, chaos ruled. It is said that after the fall of the Grey Folk, the land was tainted with the scars of their doing for thousands of years. Maybe certain influences still lingered in Alagaesia, dormant and unknown, waiting for magic users to fall under its grip. I cannot contest the truth of those legends, but zeal and ambition forced some of the elves to rebel against their ruler. And for that, they needed power… A power greater than that of their opponents and skills more refined than their finest swordsman._

_I have already taught you Siran's teachings and shared Lorfing's knowledge of magic, two of the more significant elven magicians. Quite the irony, how those arrogant elves banned their own spells, afraid of their power. Their mistake is our gain, and that's why you, my right hand of vengeance, will obliterate them. _

_With the aid of his other companions, Dolagorn succeeded in enhancing his physical prowess beyond any Rider. You already know that magic weakens you. Each spell uses your own energy to fuel itself so that it can spark into existence. Dolagorn did the opposite: he used magic to empower his body. The result was the massacre of the elven garrison of Laerlan, the elven capital at that time. Of course his companions helped him, but even now, elves tremble when the reminder of the Laerlan Slaughter lingers in their scrolls. Dark magic aided three elves in conquering a capital. You better mark my words…_

Murtagh jerked his head when his mind returned to its sharp state. Of all his previous lessons with Galbatorix, this was the only one where he paused many times, filtering his secrets and carefully choosing what to discard and what to say. There was more to this story, but for now, Murtagh had to use this knowledge to defend himself.

_What's life without a little risk?_ Murtagh chuckled, drawing upon the power of the remaining eldunari. He knew the words. He was aware of what irrational trade he was about to perform. He very well knew that the eldunari will be completely depleted, rendering him and the two dragons vulnerable for the rest of the fight. Yet he did not flinch. The string of silently whispered words slowly came to an end, completing the spell…

_Magi__c is of no use when you are dead. _Murtagh smiled as a surge of power engulfed his body. His muscles felt invigorated, the pain in his shoulder dissipated as the wound healed itself, and the sensation was exhilarating. The gedwey ignasia on his palm sparkled with ruby energy, and a translucent aura of magic imitated the shape of Murtagh's body, the incredible amount of energy oozing out of him. Murtagh learned that the richer the color, the stronger the magic was and the more resources he could spend. In his case, the faded vermilion aura was weak, impossible to see for a normal elf or human alike.

The other elves exchanged looks between them before they too charged forward, with the males taking the lead. The archer ran for a very short distance before she stopped, aiming with her bow at one of the dragons.

_Shruikan, land in their path. _The black dragon darted swiftly upon their location, roaring defiantly. As expected, the elves broke their formation to evade the massive bulk that collided with the earth, debris flying as he flung his tail and claws at two of the elves who were near him.

_My turn, _Murtagh laughed, and vanished. A column of fire erupted from behind the elf which continued his charge with Murtagh in the middle of it.

"My gratitude for your fallen comrade," he smirked and slashed through his torso with blinding speed, the power of his strike splitting his lower and upper parts of the body. He then fixed his gaze on the archer whose arrows pierced Shruikan's hide in different places.

"Jierda," whispered Murtagh, fixing the bow with his stare. Immediately after his incantation, he felt a small reserve of his energy dissipating, but the bow was still intact.

_Wards… I must_- he managed to think before the two swordsmen were upon him, a flurry of steel attacking him. The unrelenting slashes, hits and trusts appeared overwhelming, but due to his enhanced body, Murtagh managed to dodge and parry them all. Arrows kept bouncing off harmlessly whenever the whistling sound of one such arrow passed by Murtagh's ears, aiming at either Shruikan or himself.

Murtagh leaned his head to evade a potentially dangerous attack while he placed his sword vertically near his chest, parrying two other blows.

_The archer_, Murtagh managed to think across the mental connection he formed. Suddenly a blast of blazing red fire escaped from Thorn's mouth, forming a cloud that incinerated anything in its path.

Murtagh's wards protected him against the deadly flaming attack as he dashed towards the archer with all the speed he could muster. The female's lips moved as the arrow tip was covered with a small, extremely sharp layer of ice. With a flick of her hand, she released the arrow, which traveled with great speed towards the Rider.

The arrow smashed itself into the protective wards as Murtagh quickly advanced, slashing quickly with his sword as soon as he was in the range of the elf.

The female nimbly dodged most of his attacks, but she could not stop the sword from cutting her bow into pieces as Murtagh swung his sword upwards after a particular slash at her hips. With his uncanny speed, Murtagh managed to inflict numerous slashes before the elf disengaged. Due to the teleport assault, most of his magic dissipated, and so did his strength.

Pulling a small dagger from her hip, the archer attacked Murtagh savagely, swinging and thrusting with her dagger wildly in attempting to score a hit. Murtagh bended to the right, then lowered his body, and then smacked the elf in the chin with the pommel of Zar'roc as she lunged forward.

A cry of pain followed, but Murtagh could care no less as he quickly looked at the two swordsmen he left behind. The grass around Shruikan was reduced to ash, the thick smoke from the burning grass making Murtagh's eyesight ineffective. A blast of swirling air smashed into him, but the wards absorbed the full force of the impact. Turning his look towards the source of the spell, he could see the elf uttering other incantations while three of the arrows from the archer's quiver flew into the air with their tips pointed at Murtagh.

_Thorn, help Shruikan,_ Murtagh commanded. Like a red arrow, Thorn roared and unleashed his blazing fury upon the ground, scorching it before the land trembled beneath his feet.

Realizing that his wards would be greatly weakened by the arrows, Murtagh abandoned his plan of killing the archer as he broke into a run, moving in different directions to make the targeting harder. He burst through the column of smoke, fixing his eyes on the two dragons who desperately tried to keep the elves away.

Shruikan slashed with his claws and even used his tail to hit the elves, but they nimbly evaded all of his attacks. Thorn was staying further in the back, assisting Shruikan by releasing streams of ruby fire to disorientate the elves.

The group of fighters quickly gathered into one spot, then separated, each of them running into a different direction. One of them attempted to flank Shruikan while the other went straight for Thorn.

Murtagh tightened his grip on Zar'roc and ran towards the elves as fast as he could. But he was too late. The elf that attacked Thorn easily evaded a paw swipe from the ruby dragon, then rolled over and slashed with his sword across his leg. Thorn hissed in pain, bringing his head down while his jaws parted, revealing rows of deadly teeth. The elf pushed his body into another roll, slashing again at Thorn's foreleg before he whirled his body, bringing his sword down upon the same foreleg. Thorn roared in pain as the blade cut a deep gash as blood poured out of the open wound.

Murtagh gritted his teeth, extending his hand. "Thrysta vindr," he shouted, creating a powerful force of air that impacted upon the elf. The male quickly looked towards the direction from which the spell came, but this distraction was all that Thorn needed. Enraged, the ruby dragon brought his snout down with incredible alacrity, but the elf disappeared. Whimpering as he took a step forward while he looked at Shruikan, Thorn stopped and tended to his wound, which was too severe for him to keep moving.

Content to get rid of the momentary threat, Murtagh quickly focused his attention and ran towards Shruikan, who was now fighting two enemies a bit farther from his location. Unlike Thorn, the black dragon managed to keep his enemies away through a series of quick paw strikes, tail swipes and wing buffets.

Murtagh managed to reach the two elves and tried to end the weakened one, but his companion parried his blow and slashed viciously at his chest. The weakened elf quickly disengaged and ran farther from Shruikan, looking at Murtagh expectantly. Murtagh moved Zar'roc through the air, then ran towards the elf, determined to end his life.

Charging forward, Zar'roc clashed with the metal blade in a multitude of sparks as the elf brought his sword forward. Murtagh attacked with a flurry of quick strikes, trying to push the elf on defensive, but even the toll of his miraculous escape was not a significant advantage. The small blade seemed to be everywhere as it blocked every blow made against the elf, while he gracefully danced around his enemy. Murtagh made a quick slash at the elf's legs, then at his hips, forcing him to defend his lower regions. Then, he slashed upwards, blocking an incoming hit from the elf. Focusing his strength into a mighty blow, Murtagh brought Zar'roc down in an oblique slash, forcing the elf in choosing between parrying and evading the blow. The elf quickly placed his free hand on the small pommel of the blade, parrying the incoming hit. A powerful, clanging noise resonated as Zar'roc cut through the metal blade, rendering the elf's weapon useless.

After gaining the necessary advantage over his enemy, Murtagh pushed forward, branding his blade relentlessly at the defenseless elf who desperately tried in avoiding the red blade.

He almost got him when the elf stumbled upon the ground, aiming with the remains of his sword at Murtagh. The red Rider was about to cut him down when he felt a constricting force wrapping around his feet. Quickly switching his look away from the defenseless elf, Murtagh noticed a few binding roots gripping his feet and rendering him unable to move.

"You were caught," laughed the elf, shouting towards his partner who was still busy with Shruikan. Murtagh looked at the elf venomously before he noticed the archer he failed to kill earlier. She stood nearby, muttering the needed words for the incantation. Turning his head around, Murtagh caught a glimpse of the other elf that was quickly approaching him, with Shruikan right on his heels.

Quickly exchanging Zar'roc between his hands, Murtagh gripped the sword firmly and threw it with great speed towards the laughing elf. The quick reflexes allowed him to dodge the sword aimed at his chest, but he was not fast enough to evade it in time. A scream of pain was released as Zar'roc pierced through the elf's shoulder, coloring his green tunic with the color of blood after it fell onto the ground.

Extending his hand, Murtagh quickly muttered the counter spell for the roots, but he met an unusual strong resistance from the archer. Still moaning in pain, the elf looked at Murtagh with hate and stabbed him with the remains of his sword. The metal bounced off harmlessly due to the wards, but the elf did not cease his attempts as he frowned, increasing the speed of his trusts. Murtagh punched the elf straight into the jaw, sending him back a short distance as he fell onto the ground.

Another scream, this time a feminine one dwarfed the moaning of the wounded elf as new roots sprouted from the ground, gripping Murtagh's arms. Murtagh struggled, trying to break free of the increasing constrictive force, but the strong roots did not falter. The pressure on his wrists and legs suddenly increased, snapping his fragile bones off. Murtagh screamed in agony at the pain that exploded from his arms and feet. Struggling with the intense pain, Murtagh barely noticed with the corner of his tear-filled eyes that the elf female dropped on the ground, exhausted due to the effects of the spell. Yet this was not the worst part. The agile companion of the wounded elf had reached Murtagh and began to slash furiously at him. The wounded elf also got up, switching his eyes towards Zar'roc as a small smile presented itself onto his face.

The ground trembled as something heavy smashed into the earth, temporary stopping the attacks of the agile elf. Shruikan barely stopped him from picking the sword with his heavy tail that smacked the earth with great power.

Murtagh tried to tap into the eldunari for extra energy, but there was none left. Desperate and with no alternatives left, he brushed his conscience against Shruikan's, pleading for an ounce of his great strength. The elder dragon said nothing, but allowed him access to his reserves.

Murtagh quickly muttered a healing spell to mend his broken bones. The vines around his wrists were still too strong for him to break free, but their constricting force lessened considerably after the elf fainted. Murtagh's bones snapped into place as the healing spell took effect, a groan of pain escaping him.

A fierce growl rippled from Shruikan as the black dragon swiped with his tail at the agile elf, but the elf rolled under it and picked Zar'roc, the blade gleaming with the blood of his kin.

Enraged, he slashed at Shruikan's leg immediately after ducking under a tail swipe. Shruikan growled in pain. The sickening sound only amplified when the elf used his paw as a support to jump, thrusting Zar'roc into the upper part of his leg. Shruikan roared in pain as the enchanted Rider blade pierced his scales, embedding into the soft muscle. An instinctive paw caught the elf unaware, sending him tumbling towards Murtagh.

_I cannot allow them to recover, _thought Murtagh_. Thorn, I need help, _he cried across their link. _Lend me your strength._

With access to new reserves of power, Murtagh looked at Shruikan who crashed on his belly, Zar'roc implanted in his leg. Then, he quickly started to speak in the ancient language, uttering a spell that would take effect before the wards which protected him against swords would falter.

His gedwey ignasia glowed briefly before the howl of a terrible wind could be heard while everything around Murtagh glowed with a blinding white light. In the next moment, a blast of white mist radiated from Murtagh while a red blur of concentrated energy traversed the ground.

Murtagh opened his eyes shortly after the spell has ended. He immediately noticed that everything around him was frozen. The blades of grass were coated with crystalline ice, while the ground was frozen solid. A sickly scream of fright erupted from the elves, whose legs were now trapped in a thin layer of ice.

"Thrysta," said Murtagh simply, causing the ice to break into a multitude of shards. The roots that bound him snapped like dry twigs, releasing his arms and legs. Thanks to his wards against the cold, his body was not affected the slightest by the freezing spell which finished off his opponents.

The look upon the two elves's faces was that of pure shock as they stared incredulously at their frozen legs. No scream of pain, no whimper or anything was heard when the ice exploded into pieces, crumbling their frail bones and muscles.

"H-how could you…cast such a spell with-without falling dead from…exhaustation?"asked one elf that was lying on the ground, helpless.

Another voice filled with pain and hatred answered. "It was the dark king that…taught him to…torture his enemies like this… May you find no-no peace in your miserable life... son of Morzan."

Murtagh eyed the two elves briefly before he looked towards Zar'roc. Shruikan managed to pull it out of his leg somehow. Whimpering, he tried to lick his wounds, but the damage was greater than what dragon saliva could heal. Without paying attention to the deformed bodies of the two elves, Murtagh ran towards his sword, grabbing it with alacrity. Swishing it a couple of times, he quickly turned around, putting an end to the suffering of the two elves by cutting their heads.

_The enemy is not yet finished__, small one, _Shruikan said when Murtagh tried to approach him. There would be a better opportunity for his wounds to be tended, and Murtagh accepted the truth in his words.

The fires that consumed the vegetation around the battle field moved forward, burning everything in their path while a black cloud of smoke rose above the orange flames. Scanning the area with his dark brown eyes, Murtagh quickly caught a glimpse of the female elf. With her staff held firmly into one hand while the other one was extended, the elf's lips did not cease moving. Murtagh easily noticed a glimmer of white, blinding light as something was created right above the elf's palm. A faint trail of frigid mist started to surround the elf's palm as the air began to freeze around that strange object. Murtagh jolted back as the object quickly took form. Several icicles were hidden in the frigid mist that surrounded them, sharp, pointy edges protruding from every part of their shape.

But they were not pointed at him. With a look of dread into his eyes, Murtagh turned his head towards Shruikan, whose attention was turned not on the two wounded elves, but onto the wounded form of Thorn.

_Curses! The elf must have seen the whole battle, and if Shruikan was close enough when I used my freezing spell, then his wards are_…

Murtagh's thoughts trailed off as he quickly sheathed his sword while silently chanting in the ancient language. A small ball of fire ignited itself into his outstretched hand. Without wasting more time to reinforce it, Murtagh launched the flaming ball at the elf. But it was too late…

With a flick of her hand, the icicles were launched with great speed towards Shruikan. At the same time, the ball of fire traversed through the air.. The fire splashed onto an invisible surface, dissipating its flames in an instant.

A loud roar of pain made Murtagh's heart skip a beat when the icicles pierced through Shruikan's side, easily bypassing the protection offered by his scales. Crimson blood oozed from the pierced flesh shortly after the icicles embedded themselves in the muscle, causing a noticeable damage.

Murtagh threw the elf a venomous glare as his conflicted feelings told him two different things: to put an end to the elf's life or to take care of Shruikan. Murtagh made up his mind almost in an instant when a soft growl overwhelmed his desire to take revenge upon the elf.

Turning around, Murtagh quickly ran towards Shruikan, inspecting his side.

Shruikan was too tall for Murtagh to reach where the wounds were and heal them. The icicles were obviously aimed towards his neck, but for some reason they failed to reach their target. Three of them were placed next to each other in a circular pattern, near the end of Shruikan's neck while the fourth one created a particular large puncture right above his foreleg. Murtagh could not evaluate the extent of the wounds, but he observed four tough objects embedded into the flesh, surrounded by the damaged black scales. The warm blood trickled down, coating the black scales with lines of red. Murtagh cringed at the sight and held his breath, the metallic scent being too pungent for him to smell.

_Leave my wounds for a later time, small one. Right now you must end the elf before she can cause any more damage, _said Shruikan as he turned his massive head towards Murtagh.

Knowing the pain Shruikan was probably experiencing, Murtagh reluctantly took his eyes off the bloodied punctures, _she has wards against fire and probably ice, but something tells me that she is not protected against earth attacks_.

The dragon growled softly, _you should use your blade to finish her off then. It will take less energy and the precision of the attack does not leave room for failure_.

_That is right, but my wards have almost reached their limit._ _If she uses another spell that has to do with ice, then that will be the end of me._

Murtagh looked towards the ground, then at the elf, _she is not that far away, but the energy it would take to rip the earth apart will be much greater than to give it a shape and launch it towards her. Maybe you could help me solve this problem_.

Murtagh looked expectantly at Shruikan, who drew his head back, snorting a puff of black smoke. _I can see why you small ones would need to waste so much energy on such a trivial thing_, he said as he turned his body around.

The long, powerful tail of Shruikan soon came into view. Murtagh moved close to its end, but he was still careful to keep a distance large enough to avoid something unpleasant from happening.

Murtagh flexed his fingers as the tail was slowly being lifted into the air. Then, in a split second, it was brought down with massive force, making the ground tremble at the impact that shook it from its foundations. A cloud of dust and dirt rose into the air after the impact, but Murtagh was already muttering his incantations.

Fragments of earth rose into the air as they molded together into a shape that would resemble an earth icicle. Murtagh's lips stopped moving as the last of his silent words was uttered. The earth missile was quickly launched at the elf, who prepared yet another ice spell to finish off her enemies. Widening her eyes at the unsuspected attack, she firmly grabbed the staff with her hands, vanishing in the blink of an eye.

** Nope, it's not a cliffhanger. A single elf escaped, so she will most likely not get involved into an irrational battle. So how was the fight? I thoroughly enjoyed it, especially because those elves were not quite weak and Murtagh had to strain his available resources to their limits, and go beyond them too(he used Shruikan's energy...)**

** The next chapter will present the outcome of the battle and some other preparations. My intention is to get Murtagh and Thorn and Shruikan moving so I can get back to Eragon and his own team. There are high chances I will keep my promise and do the Roran chapters first. No matter, I hope you enjoyed this chapter enough to leave a comment or a review.**


	23. Mending Wounds

Murtagh was sure that his attack reached its target. The elf's form disappeared in the blink of an eye, allowing the earth missile to pass right through where she used to stand. Growling in anger, Murtagh cut the energy flow that sustained the missile, making it disintegrate into mere fragments of dirt. Murtagh breathed in the fresh air, frustrated and concerted because of his failure. Keeping the earth missile together took more energy than launching it towards the elf, and now Murtagh was paying the price.

Releasing a drawn out sigh, Murtagh touched Shruikan's mind. _That is exactly what I feared of, _he said, looking in the distance._ She did not only escape by using a teleportation just before my attack hit her, but she also traveled a great distance. _Murtagh paused for a bit._ I cannot sense her presence anywhere nearby._

With no reply coming from Shruikan, Murtagh turned his eyes to the corpses of the slain male elves. _If she transported herself near Gil'ead, there is no doubt that she will gather another party and hunt us down_.

_Do not burden yourself with unnecessary weights, Murtagh, _Shruikan said._ Even if she does gather another party, it will take at least half a day for them to traverse this distance, and when they do we will be long gone_, answered the black dragon reassuringly.

Shruikan's voice immediately reminded Murtagh of what he was about to do before ending the battle. Raising his head, he quickly turned around and ran around Shruikan's body with laborious steps. Shruikan shifted his body into a fitter position from which he would be able to get up easier.

_Don't do that, _Murtagh demanded, approaching his wounded right leg. _I'll…be able to heal your wound._

Shruikan growled softly, but Murtagh denied him any attempts to speak.

Placing a hand on a part of Shruikan's leg which was spared of any kind of damage, Murtagh took a deep breath. _I only need to regain a part of my energy, that's all,_ he said. Shifting his view towards the bloody wounds, Murtagh made a quick analysis of the damage and the severity of the wounds. Removing his hand from Shruikan's leg, Murtagh glanced at his Gedwey Ignasia before he placed his hands over the damaged scales.

A dim red light engulfed the small area on which his hand was placed upon after the words were uttered. Feeling the last remains of his strength leaving him, Murtagh gritted his teeth and continued with the spell. A bead of sweat came down from his forehead after it passed by the dirtied raven hair which contained a mixture of dirt, blood and perspiration. Sliding across his dirty face splattered with drops of blood, it rested on his chin before finally splashing onto the earth below.

Growling loudly, Shruikan shattered the barriers of Murtagh's mind, washing away his fatigue with a wave of invigorating energy. _Your stubbornness could rival that of a dragon, small one, but just like a hatchling, you must know your limitations_, he said, bringing his snout closer to him. _And when to give up_, he added warmly.

Murtagh couldn't help but smile when Shruikan gently touched his arm with his snout.

_It was my penance for allowing that elf to attack you_… he paused. _With my own sword… If I could-_

_You did better than you realize, small one, _Shruikan said._ You are just too stubborn to acknowledge that. _

Murtagh chuckled, removing his right hand from Shruikan's leg. There were no traces of any damage inflicted upon the lustrous black scales that covered it. _That is one problem out of the way,_ Murtagh quickly spoke, switching his attention to Shruikan's neck.

_Now, allow me to-_

_Check on Thorn first, _Shruikan said._ If his wounds are lesser than mine, then I will allow you to tend to my wounds._

Brushing his snout against Murtagh's arm one more time to show his appreciation, Shruikan got up from his position. He slowly moved towards the fallen archer, lowering his neck as he reached her. He briefly sniffed her limp body before he gently pushed her with his snout.

_This one is still alive, but it will not be long until she will fade._

Murtagh took a quick glance at Thorn, who was lying on the ground, a bit farther from their position.

_How bad are you wounded, Thorn? _He asked, concern oozing from his voice_. Do you need my assistance?_

_I tended to my wounds while you were fighting, little one, _replied Thorn, looking straight at Murtagh._ Save your energy and heal Shruikan first because his wounds may be greater than mine_.

Murtagh was a bit hesitant to let his dragon suffer, even for a brief period, but the sight of Shruikan's blood covered scales was a decisive factor in taking a decision.

Turning his attention towards the limp corpse of the female archer- and subsequently towards the large black dragon that was lying nearby, Murtagh began to walk towards them.

Retracting his snout from the limp elf, Shruikan quickly spoke. _I will not be the one to decide the fate of the elf._

.

Murtagh looked at the black dragon, then glanced at the elf. Shruikan moved back a little, turning his head around so he could face the red dragon that was lying on the parched ground, away from the bodies and the blood that fell onto the battle field.

Extending his wings, Shruikan prepared to take flight.

_No, wait! _Cried Murtagh, taking his eyes off the female elf. There was no doubt that it was her who grew the vines which almost had almost killed him, if not for Shruikan's intervention.

Shruikan folded his wings, looking at Murtagh with a questioning stare in his sparkling amber eyes.

_We all heard what Thorn said, _Murtagh spoke with confidence._ Now, allow me to rid you of the pain you are experiencing, _said Murtagh, walking towards the black dragon_, after all, it is because of me that your wards against the cold were weakened._

_Ease your mind and stop taking the blame on yourself, Murtagh, _Shruikan growled_. The wounds I have received while fighting against the Riders of Old were far greater compared to these feeble scratches, small one_, said Shruikan calmly, his head turned towards Thorn_, worry not for me, for these wounds are not that painful compared to the cuts Thorn must have received_.

Murtagh smiled, passing by Shruikan's lengthy tail as he moved forward, _he also said that I should heal you first, so I will accept no denials from you._ Murtagh laid a hand on the lower part of the black dragon's hind leg while his eyes were set upon the impressive, well curved ivory claws. While no dragon could use their hind legs during ground combat, the sharp claws of their hind legs could cause noticeable damage when fighting another dragon in the open sky.

Shruikan growled softly, _I cannot stop you since you are so determined, can I? _The black dragon slowly lowered himself on the ground to allow Murtagh a better access in healing his wounds.

_I guess not, _Murtagh laughed, quickly removing his hand from the tough black scales as he broke into a run. He had to go all the way around Shruikan's huge body before the bloody punctures came into view. The distance between him and the wounds was still large enough to the point where the healing spell would drain more energy than usual, but Murtagh did not care. Rubbing his hands together, he pressed his body against Shruikan's foreleg and extended his right hand as far as he could.

Muttering the needed words for the healing spell, Murtagh's gedwey ignasia glowed red as the spell was beginning to take effect. Murtagh gritted his teeth as his energy was quickly leaving him, but did not interrupt the spell until he felt the last bits of flesh knitting together while the black scales were put back into place. The glow suddenly vanished as Murtagh ended the spell. Blinking a few times as an overpowering sensation of dizziness overwhelmed him, Murtagh wobbled on his feet as he slowly retracted his hand.

_Curses! Did I…use too much? Was the wound…?_ Feeling the earth becoming more unsteady with each passing moment, he collapsed on the ground, meeting the soft powdery cinder that covered the soil.

_You small ones are always taking the wrong decisions when there is no dragon nearby to undo your mistakes,_ growled Shruikan.

Murtagh barely understood what Shruikan said as his mind had difficulties in grasping what was going on. The only thing he was aware of was a feeling of warmness that engulfed his body, followed by something hard brushing against his shoulder. Then, out of a sudden, a riptide of energy cascaded over his being, invigorating him in an instant.

_Wha-what happened? _Said Murtagh, jolting up from his laying position_._

_You exhausted yourself with that healing spell, Murtagh, _he replied calmly.

Murtagh felt a bit stupid, and Shruikan's slightly scolding voice made him feel even worse for forgetting such a basic rule of magic.

_I-I guess you are right_, he said, looking sheepishly towards his right. The black scales that covered Shruikan's snout obscured his view. _Anyway, I guess you are feeling much better now,_ added Murtagh as he extended his left hand, running it down against the edges of Shrukan's jaw.

_That is right, and I am most grateful for it, _added the black dragon. Shruikan's lips parted slightly, causing Murtagh's hand to retract instinctively. An onrush of air sent the particles of cinder high into the air as Shruikan hummed in contentment.

The warm gusts of warm air that came out of Shruikan's nostrils came to a stop as the dragon lifted its body off the ground, removing his snout from Murtagh's shoulder in the process.

_I will now go and see how Thorn is doing and the condition of his wounds_, said Shruikan, extending his massive wings, _you should also make haste in joining us, as any passing traveler with scrying capabilities will realize that this burned land was not Saphira's doing_. With that, Shruikan flapped his mighty wings, creating a cloud as black as his scales in his wake.

Murtagh closed his eyes to prevent the cinder from irritating his vision. Then, as soon as the black powder settled back on the ground, Murtagh rose from the ground, walking with quick steps towards the body of the female elf

As soon as the elf's body came into sight, Murtagh couldn't help but marvel at her beauty. Although her lithe body was covered in a thin layer of dust mixed with remains of burned grass that gave her a rugged appearance, her features remained as impressive as ever. She had a long, golden hair which resembled the golden grass and a face almost as perfect as the elf named Arya who he had seen in Gil'ead, a long time ago.

_I…cannot blame her for being forced to fight against me, even if her choices were constricted by a different kind of oath._ His thoughts drifted back to the past events. All the lives he had taken, all the families he had ruined… it was all because of Galbatorix. _Maybe I did become his hand of vengeance… it was not Galbatorix's arm, but mine the one that ended the life of that Rider, bringing all this suffering upon them_… Murtagh cast a quick glance around the battle field. The corpses of the fallen elves were lying lifeless on the burned ground, waiting to be claimed by the ground and the elements. _I may be despised… I may be hated… but I will not keep adding to the cost in blood this war keeps feeding on._

Extending his mind to the elf's consciousness, Murtagh easily broke through her undefended mind. Having no interest in the elf's memories, Murtagh quickly ignored them as he poured a bit of his energy into her. Feeling his energy dissipating from his body, Murtagh cut the connection between him and the elf after he poured just enough energy to prevent her from dying.

_There is nothing more I can do for you except hoping that we will not meet again on the battle field._

Murtagh smiled briefly after he retracted into the confines of his own mind. Content with the thought that he made the right decision, Murtagh looked at the elf one more time before he turned his view away from her, looking towards the black dragon that steadily flapped his wings, nearing Thorn's position.


	24. Blackened Fate, Crimson Twilight

**Bonus points to the one who tells me why this title(meaning minor spoiler) in a review. **

A gusty wind swept the forlorn remains of the vegetation that littered the parched ground, making it look like a black, uneven stain. Small particles of soot danced it the air, creating a spectacle in the form of a rain of cinder mercilessly swept away by the air currents. The scent of charred grass mixed itself with the pungent smell of coagulated blood, creating a most unpleasant odor. Burying his snout under his paw, Thorn released a dim, muffled growl. Each inhalation of the tainted air was a painful reminder of his past, raking at his memories until the unpleasant, the tainted part of his miserable life resurfaced. Lashing his tail against the ground, Thorn's eyes searched for something, anything, that would take his mind off the destruction around him. But there was no such thing. The blackened earth and the scent it carried had been a too familiar stimulus for the young dragon who became the instrument of such destruction.

Ever since he had been capable of carrying Murtagh on his back, Thorn was forced to strictly obey the king's commands, much of his liberty taken by what seemed a mere human. Mistaking Galbatorix for a puny human, however, was a mistake, even for a young, inexperienced dragon. Every word he spoke, every command he handled was to be accomplished as soon as possible. No objections, no failures. And no leeway allowed. The days of relative freedom were over, and there was no turning back. Galbatorix was a shrewd person, and he did what any man of his position would do. Making use of his greatest asset, and as much as possible.

The first assignments were nothing special. Most of the tasks were in the boundaries of what a normal soldier would be capable of doing, like scouting or traveling between settlements. The simplicity of these menial tasks surprised even Murtagh, who began to question the king's sanity. He was no mere soldier, and even he—a name slave which had no control over his own life—deserved more respect than that. But he did not protest—not in Galbatorix's presence, at least. Thorn made sure that something like that would not happen by keeping Murtagh's behavior in check, often mending his sore mind and provide him one more reason to get up from the bottomless pit in which both of them lingered. Time passed without mercy, and nothing seemed to change until Thorn became a mature dragon.

After he learned to breathe fire—a natural ability all dragons possess, Thorn and Murtagh were given different type of tasks, which were sure to include a use for Thorn's new ability. Ranging from the destruction of caravans that supplied the Varden with different goods to scouting missions that usually ended up with the death of someone, Thorn had no choice but to cause strife and destruction. His blazing fire incinerated everything it touched, reducing it to ashes, while his fangs and claws drew blood every time someone would take arms against him.

Snorting revoltingly as ash made its way into his nostrils, Thorn's mind returned to the present. In the distance, a cloud of rising black smoke was obscuring the clear-blue-sky. Thorn was not particularly interested in the aftermath that involved the vegetation. His focus was summoned by something less monotonous and static. Nearing him with slow beat of his wings, Shruikan began to slowly descend. Soft, powdery ash flew into the air when paws that matched the ground's color touched the burned soil. Folding his wings, he placed them safely near his body.

Thorn growled with contentment at the sight of the black dragon. The battle ended favorably for all of them, and this single thought was enough to wash away Thorn's worries. Hastily scrambling on his legs, Thorn rushed forward, wincing slightly as he did so. He barely took one step and the stinging pain already retaliated scornfully after he placed his injured foreleg on the ground. Releasing a soft growl—which was more like a whimper— Thorn quickly lifted his injured leg and slowly lowered his body on the ground, looking at the approaching black dragon with interest.

Shruikan's majestic form dwarfed everything around him as he approached Thorn. The ruby dragon was greeted by a pleasant nuzzle on the back of his neck before Shruikan lowered his snout even further, sniffing at the lacerations on Thorn's leg. Extending his neck to return the greeting, Thorn reached Shruikan's neck. He was inches away with his snout when a loud whimper escaped him, distracting his attention.

Shruikan's tongue gently brushed against the exposed flesh. The caring gesture was a sign of good will, yet he still found it unpleasant.

Although Shruikan's intentions were good, Thorn could not tolerate the pain anymore as he quickly retracted his leg while his snout darted forward. Clamping his jaws around Shruikan's neck in a light grip, Thorn growled his discomfort.

Shruikan immediately understood the implications of his actions. Pulling his snout away from Thorn's injuries, he released a soft growl.

_I apologize for causing you pain, young one. That particular cut would need much more than my assistance to heal itself_, said Shruikan.

Tongue strokes brushed against the scales where teeth previously gripped Shruikan's neck. The contact with the obsidian scales was interrupted when Shruikan rose up. Moving around Thorn, he lowered his body beside him.

The ruby dragon growled approvingly when Shruikan's bulk settled itself so close to him. The extra warmth and the large black wing that was draped over his body, covering everything except a part of his hail and head, instilled a feeling of safety into the young dragon's mind.

_All my attacks were useless against such speedy opponent__, _said Thorn, placing his head on Shruikan's foreleg. _It is a bit amusing how fate twists and turns. Elves made the pact with our race to stop the blood shed, and in exchange they gained abilities that would allow them to kill us as easily as we kill our prey_.

_That is one of the sparks which led to the ignition of the great war that decimated our race,_said Shruikan, lowering his neck until he comfortably placed his head on the ground. _Power can alter one's personality to the point where it becomes a shadow of his former self, unrecognizable even by the ones closest to it._

Thorn thought about Shruikan's words, but he could not discern the meaning behind them. _The Riders… how were they before Galbatorix lost his dragon?_

_No one knows for sure, _Shruikan snorted, looking at the sky thoughtfully. _Some claim that the Riders were the ultimate wall against misery, that the land flourished and people knew no fear. Yet_— Shruikan paused, looking towards the ruby dragon who held his head low, his eyes full of questions and desire to know the ill fate of an order that was responsible for his misfortune almost equally to his predicament. _Our species suffered during the Elven War, yes,_ Shruikan thought, finding a little consolation in the vermilion eyes of Thorn, _but what if the pact never happened? We wouldn't be bonded with the elves, give them power and spurt their arrogance, and ultimately destroy ourselves in the process. If Galbatorix had no dragon in the first place, none of this would have happened…_

_The seed of discord had been planted way before The Fall, young one, _Shruikan said with resignation. _Its roots thickened under the ground, away from their perception, and the beautiful vine, the Riders, that entangled the elven society became a poisonous ivy, suffocating what the elves strived to protect in the end. _

_The Riders…_Thorn asked with bewilderment, _they had changed before Galbatorix lost his dragon?_

Shruikan released a soft growl, _they did, young one, long before Galbatorix was born. Power breeds arrogance and swelters pride, which in turn leads to conflicts. With no other authority having control over them, the Riders were the true rulers of Alagaesia. _

Thorn began to slowly understand where the cause of the rot truly resided. Politics were of no concern to dragons, but Galbatorix did not mind sharing pieces of history with his most loyal and trusted servants. The Riders were only an order of peace keepers and protectors who were in the service of the lords and kings of that time, and their choosing was independent of rank, meaning that everyone had the chance to become a Rider. Even with an apparent sound system based on trust and loyalty, no ruler could hope to go against the Riders or question their decisions, even if the kingdom would ultimately suffer because of the Rider's actions. As Galbatorix said, the Riders were the force which led from the darkness, the cunning and invisible force which bended the land according to their preferences.

_So they were corrupt, after all_, said Thorn.

_Not quite, _said Shruikan. _There is no rebuttal when one follows his conscience to achieve a goal from which everyone benefits. Although their methods were questionable and sometimes frowned upon by the respective rulers, the ultimate goal of the Riders was to serve the interests of the land._

_But most of the Riders were young,_ Thorn observed. _As any hatchling, their nature was bound to resurface._

_It was only natural for that to happen._ _When a mere elf youngster obtains a magic stronger than any of the spell casters and physical attributes which would make even the seasoned veterans envy, the others become wary of his power. In turn, the elf cannot help but surrender to the feeling of superiority that is brought along with his new abilities._ Shruikan paused, and Thorn eyed him with a contemplative look. _But chiding someone who has equal authority, if not higher, than the King or Queen, is no easy task, _Shruikan added, clawing at the grass with his right paw, trying to end the life of a pesky insect-with-many-legs that tried to use his paw as a refuge.

_The dragons!_ Thorn cut in with enthusiasm, feeling that it all began to make sense. _We obey to no one, and when a dragon hatches for someone, the Rider should feel privileged. It's our choice, not theirs. So it falls to us to fight the unreasonable and win._

Shruikan nudged Thorn in the neck with his snout, making the young dragon lose his mesmerized state and wince_, surely you know how powerful the Rider bond is. You— _Shruikan bowed his head, _you know it better than me._

Thorn felt pity cascading over him. Shruikan's life was more miserable than his own. Enslaved since he hatched, he was deprived of a loving Rider, or a caring mate. His life was shallow, empty, and dark. Darker than his scales, empty and cold like the marbled chambers in Uru'baen.

_They were not easily manipulated,_ Shrukan said, interrupting Thorn's train of thought. _Molding one's personality is nothing less than an impossible feat, knowing that the dragon chooses his Rider. We are not without flaws, and this reflected our choice of Riders. _

Thorn lifted his head from his previously comfortable position. _It's hard to believe that no dragon could grind some rightfulness into those arrogant elves_, Thorn said. He was about to continue when his attention was quickly attracted by the strong scent of blood which came from somewhere nearby. Barely spending time to look around, Thorn quickly found the source of the sticky substance that was covering the midnight black scales. After a brief sniff, Thorn's tongue darted out of his mouth, brushing softly against the bloodied scales.

Shruikan growled softly, then whimpered as Thorn's tongue ran over an open wound, _we too were responsible for what happened, hatchling, _Shruikan said, wincing at the contact._ Being a proud race ourselves, we could not see through the ominous veil that was starting to afflict the Riders._

Thorn continued to clean Shruikan's scales, careful not to provoke any unnecessary pain to the older dragon. Careful as a mother who cleaned her hatchlings, Thorn ran the tip of his tongue over the bloodied scales slowly, almost soothingly.

Caught in a moment between calmness and ease, Thorn pondered about what he just learned. The Riders undoubtedly played a big role in the extinction of the dragons, save for those who still survived. No matter the sides, the damage had already been done, and while the Forsworn were responsible for the current situation, Thorn knew that it was the failed request of Galbatorix who brought this one upon them.

He also loved Murtagh, and their feelings for each other ran deeper than gestures or words that too often cause irrevocable confusion. Murtagh was the partner of his mind and soul, a reliable being who always trusted his counsel and never acted stupidly on his own. Well, at least most of the times. What was wrong with the Riders then? Was misery necessary to open their eyes? Was carnage the only solution to put an end to a faulty system?

_I am grateful that you managed to dispose of the elf before he could hurt you even more. If that happened, then the blame was on me for not being able to protect you, _said Shruikan , his voice warm and soothing. The older dragon was oblivious to Thorn's concerns. He probably mused about the same questions at some point.

Thorn stopped for a brief moment, growling his disapproval, _I would never blame you for something like this, Shruikan. If anything, it should be my fault for not being strong enough to protect myself._

No further words came from Shruikan as he began licking Thorn's neck. It was something unusual for a dragon to back off from an argument, but Thorn quickly realized that a simple argue would completely ruin this tender moment of relaxation.

Ultimately, it was not a dragon's stubbornness, but Murtagh's arrival that distracted the attention of the two dragons as he swiftly approached. Fortunately, Thorn cleared every trace of blood that dirtied Shruikan's hide, revealing the shiny black scales underneath. Shruikan also stopped his actions as he turned his attention towards Murtagh.

Murtagh's run came to an abrupt end as he stopped in front of the two dragons. He leisurely wiped the beads of sweat from his brow and waited for a moment to catch his breath. "Did I arrive too late?" he asked, squinting his eyes," or am I interrupting something?"

Thorn snorted a puff of smoke, _don't be silly, little one. We were both waiting for you to show up._

_There is no reason for me not to believe you,_ Murtagh said in defeat, a small smile presenting itself on his face. Thorn flicked his tail on the ground, staring at Murtagh intently. In a few strides, he covered the distance between them and knelt beside Thorn's leg, frowning a little.

_This is the last time I__ believe you_, said Murtagh on a disapproving tone as he ran his hand across the large laceration. Thorn winced at the contact, strengthening Murtagh's resolution further_. If I were absent for the whole battle, I'd say that you fought against a dragon, not one of those pompous, full of themselves elves, _Murtagh mumbled, pressing his last words,_ these wounds are deep enough to rival the ones caused by Saphira._

Thorn released a low growl, bringing his snout closer to Murtagh, _it may seem large to you, but to me it is as harmful as a useless stick thrown against my hide_. A snort of defiance followed, one of Thorn's means to protect his pride and to fight Murtagh's claims, which were blatantly exaggerated.

Murtagh threw him a smug look before he placed his hand on the wound. _I'll be wary of such sticks next time, then,_ Thorn barely suppressed a light growl due to the bothersome contact with the wound.

_I'm sorry about that,_ he apologized. _I can't afford being careless after all our energy sources were depleted,_ Murtagh said dryly, his concerned eyes moving swiftly in their sockets, analyzing the wound, making calculations, most likely.

Thorn looked at him questioningly. Murtagh smiled and ran his hand across his foot, all the way to his ivory claws. _I'll heal you even if I must use the last reserves of my energy, Thorn,_ Murtagh said, patting Thorn's clawed paw. _This wound will bother you no more, but before I start the healing spell I need to further inspect the depth of the wounds and adjust the right amount of energy I need to pour into the spell,_ he further explained. _This way, I will be able to do it without endangering myself more than necessary._

Thorn brought his snout closer to Murtagh and nuzzled his arm affectionately. Releasing a light laughter, Murtagh ran his hands across his snout before he gripped it with his arms, placing his forehead on the ruby scales.

_It will not be long until the sun will set_, said Murtagh on a calm voice. _Hopefully, we will reach Uru'baen by nightfall and get our well deserved rest_, he continued. Pulling his arms away, he looked briefly into Thorn's vermilion eyes before turning his attention towards the wound.

_That we shall, and we will take as many breaks as Thorn will wish to__,_ Shruikan added.

Thorn turned his attention towards the black dragon, whose eyes bore visible concern. Slowly reaching towards the black dragon, Thorn rubbed his snout against Shruikan's neck with affection.

_I do not want to be a burden for you or my Rider_, Thorn said, brushing against his hard, pristine scales. _And I also do not want Galbatorix to punish any one of us for our late arrival, _he added_._

_He will not_, Shruikan growled softly, _he probably knows the outcome of the battle and causing you any more pain would be unwise_. Shruikan retracted his neck slightly so he could look Thorn in his eyes. _Besides, I will deny him the possibility to harm the two of you, physically or mentally._

Thorn stopped from his pleasant reverie, taken aback by Shruikan's words. Shruikan was not enjoying a different freedom; he was as much of a slave as he was, maybe even worse. When his previous thoughts about Shruikan's loneliness returned, Thorn realized how caring Shruikan truly was. He was more than impressed by the selflessness displayed by one who was forced to do the mad king's bidding ever since he hatched.

Unknowingly, he found himself staring into his amber eyes. The same perplexed stare of a young ruby dragon when a massive dragon towered above him. Like a vengeance of the past, words refused to show themselves to him.

Luckily, he did not have to think a lot about it as silent words were whispered upon the gentle breeze. Immediately after, an intense pain exploded from Thorn's front leg, a loud roar making its way through his throat.

Murtagh cringed and groaned at the powerful sound, but did not stop the spell until the wounds were completely gone.

Thorn's snarl subsided once the pain was replaced by a warm, ticklish sensation. Bringing his head down so he could inspect his front leg, Thorn could see no traces of the previous lacerations. Thorn growled in pleasure as Murtagh rubbed his snout with his hands, _you can thank me later for ridding you of that superficial wound_, he chuckled.

Thorn pushed Murtagh with his snout, causing the Rider to lose his balance_, why delay when I can do it now? _He said sheepishly as his tongue flicked out of his mouth.

Thorn was about to express his gratefulness towards his Rider when Murtagh quickly rolled away, looking at Thorn like he was some kind of menace.

_I'll take my words back_, he said as he slowly moved away from Thorn, _there is no need for you to thank me for such a small favor._

Thorn snorted a puff of smoke and turned his attention away from Murtagh, _you have escaped this time, but you will need to do more than this to persuade me next time._

Thorn felt a warm, comforting rub on his neck, _I am glad you two reached an agreement because time is growing scarce_, said Shruikan wisely as he briefly nuzzled the younger dragon.

Growling in delight, Thorn had no chance to express himself as the warm, velvety membrane that was draped over his body was lifted. Placing his wing near his body, Shruikan rose from the ground, stretching his body like a cat as he lowered his front legs, bending his body forward. His wings also extended to their limits, revealing their impressive wing span. Shruikan flapped his wings experimentally a few times before he placed them safely by his body.

Watching Shruikan with interest, Thorn did not notice the human that came from behind. A slight touch on his foreleg attracted Thorn's attention, who turned his head towards the source of the disturbance.

_Aren't you going to do the same? _Asked Murtagh, throwing a quick glance at Shruikan.

_Not with you around me, _hummed Thorn as he slowly rose up on his feet, extending his wings in the process. He tried to flap them a few times before the extended flight was upon him, but his left wing remained behind the right one as it hit something. A deep, playful growl was released from the black dragon that moved a bit farther from Thorn, his amber eyes never leaving him as he looked at the ruby dragon expectantly.

_Let me carry Murtagh on my back, young one, for it would be easier for you to fly by yourself_, said Shruikan.

_I cannot accept his offer__, _Murtagh said with awe, his face pale._ You've seen how big he is and how he flies. Besides, he has no saddle and his scales would-_

Thorn snarled, interrupting the distressed Rider from his mumblings, _calm down, little one. I am strong enough to carry you, be it on my back or in my claws._

Murtagh gulped emptily at the mention of claws and threw Shruikan a quick look before he jumped into Thorn's saddle.

_Do not worry about me, Shruikan_, said Thorn as he moved towards the black dragon, _Murtagh's small weight will not be a hindrance to me._

_So be it, young one._

Shruikan lowered his body into a crouch, then leaped into the air, his massive wings generating impressive gusts of air with each flap.

Thorn took to the skies shortly after Shruikan, his sharp claws leaving deep gashes into the parched soil as he pushed himself up.

** I must say, I very much like the choice of title this time. If you paid attention to the first message, then here's your chance to get another small spoiler. The rules are simple: You have to do it officially!( by posting here). I don't want to watch for time when you sent that PM or when the profile message happened. Here, it's simple: Who gets it first gets the small spoiler. Let the game begin. **

** Also, I would be very pleased if you, my readers, decide to emerge from the darkness and populate this saddened thread with more posts. There has been a while since I got more than 3 different people posting, yet the number of readers increased since the start. Please, consider about giving me a virtual cookie. I love them so much.**


	25. To Uru'baen

**I'm not dead, and neither is this story. I'll try to update more frequently from now on, so enjoy and review. **

After flapping his mighty wings a few times, Thorn was about to meet the ground head first before he raised his wings, bringing them down with force. Through the use of his quick maneuver, Thorn managed to safely pass the barriers where many inexperienced dragons failed. Although his experience and flying skill vastly outmatched that of a hatchling, Thorn struggled intensely whenever he had to take to the skies as the mechanics of balance worked differently while in the air. Relieved that hardest part was finished, Thorn raised his limbs and placed them near his body. Gentle currents of air caressed his scales permanently the moment when he reached a higher altitude. Despite the apparent freedom, however, flying was no longer something which brought joy to the ruby dragon. The constant attention he had to pay to his position while in the sky was quite the nuisance, but it was a necessary pain. Moving on the ground would take too much time, so that option was not a viable one.

Sensing his partner's worries through the Rider bond, Murtagh rubbed Thorn's neck comfortingly, _you will not have to fly like this for long, _said Murtagh, quickly grabbing a neck spike after a violent twitch of Thorn's body. _Galbatorix has practiced magic for over a century and his vast knowledge will surely allow him to mend your tail and return it to its lengthy, majestic form. _

Thorn felt a few of his worries vanish under the comforting words of his Rider, but he couldn't get over the feeling of depression that dwelled inside him ever since his tail was reduced its shortened state, ending with that despicable stump instead of the former – yet perfect—tail tip.

Watching the form of Shruikan flying ahead of him unrestrained by any bonds also made Thorn feel slightly envious, an emotion which was quickly replaced by grief… Grief for not being able to glide across the open skies like he used to, grief for not being able to perform the occasional aerial stunts as a display of agility and skill.  
These troubling feelings did not cease from slowly eroding Thorn's happiness ever since the battle with Glaedr.

Feeling the comforting rub of his Rider's hand on the back of his neck, Thorn quickly shut his mind from Murtagh to stop channeling his feelings across their bond. Although he was grateful for his support, he did not want Murtagh to feel depressed and blame himself for the misfortune that befell the ruby dragon.

Trying to push the troubling feelings away, Thorn looked at the burned plains which rolled below him.

_My worries are my own, and I should not trouble my Rider or Shruikan any more. For the first time, I have to place my hopes in Galbatorix's hands, but I would not falter from denying his offer to heal my tail if the beings I care about would have to pay in my stead, _thought Thorn, flapping his wings with increased speed.

The two dragons released a loud roar after they passed through the thick column of smoke that rose in their path. In this portion of land, the fields still retained their golden color… but not for long. After it started with a few flames spewed at the attacking elves, the local fire soon turned into a mighty blaze that burned everything in its path.

The endless plains gave way to large patches of forests and small villages as the two passed over a large branch of the Ramr River, which split from the main stream, flowing towards the west. Wherever there was water, habituations were bound to exist, but the humans that lived in the small settlements couldn't care less about the two dragons that passed overhead, too busy with their usual lives to notice the small shapes of the proud creatures which seemed more like large birds rather than dragons at that altitude.

A pleasant breeze was blowing from the north, chilling the bodies of the dragons as the sun began to set on the horizon, casting its bright orange rays across the sky. It was a marvelous sight for anyone lucky enough to behold, but for the tired dragon it was anything but impressive. Thorn's wings ached and his muscles began to burn with the fatigue that has slowly accumulated ever since he took off.

Shruikan roared loud enough to attract Thorn's attention, _This is enough for today, young one. You already reached your limits, and this day has been too costing for you, both physically and mentally_, said Shruikan, a tint of worry lacing his thoughts.  
I can still fly until we reach the outskirts of Uru'baen. It shouldn't be that far-

A louder roar released by Shruikan interrupted his thoughts, _That will not happen, _Shruikan said. Flapping his wings with increased force, he increased distance between him and the trailing ruby dragon, I will now go and search for a suitable place to land and recover our energy.

Thorn could do nothing but agree with what Shruikan said. In reality, his tired wings were barely strong enough to hold Thorn in the air, and the prospect of feeling the tough ground under his feet was as delightful as a fresh carcass of a deer.

At Shruikan's instructions, Thorn landed on a large grassy field that was surrounded by trees. Their leaves were the same colors of gold as the plants that rose from the ground, but shades of red and bronze were not uncommon as the touch of the season imprinted its colors upon the vegetation.

Thorn inhaled the pleasant scent of the dry vegetation that surrounded him. His tense wing muscles relaxed after he placed his wings near his body, while his vermilion eyes inspected the surroundings. The area that surrounded him was tranquil and untouched by the activities of the humans, who would rather chop down the trees rather than enjoy the wild, untainted look they gave to a patch of land.  
Murtagh dismounted from the saddle, jumping on the ground. His stiff legs almost caused him to fall on the ground face first, but a quick maneuver saved him from the shame.  
Thorn growled in amusement, obtaining a slight frown from Murtagh who threw his dragon a quick, slightly menacing look.

Shruikan approached Thorn, his steps sending vibration across the dry soil. _Do you want to join me while I hunt, young ones? He asked, his nostrils twitching as he sniffed the air, I caught the scent of several deer while I was searching for a place to land. _

Thorn quickly accepted as he was also slightly hungry after the two battles which drained a considerable amount of his strength. Murtagh, on the other hand, was quite reluctant as he took a few steps away from Shruikan's large foreleg, _I will remain here, if you don't mind. I'm not as hungry as you two probably are, and I have my own food in case I get hungry. _

Shruikan growled in acknowledgement, while Thorn looked at him briefly before turning his attention towards his Rider.  
_Is there other reason besides your reluctance in joining us? Asked Thorn, moving forward, from what I know, you were quite fond of the red, tasty meat that covers a deer's bones. _

It's not because of that, answered Murtagh, taking a quick look at Thorn's saddlebags, _I also want to rest for a bit, and this place should suit my needs nicely. _

Murtagh took a few steps back as Thorn kept advancing, lowering the distance between them considerably.  
You could rest under my wing, little one, said Thorn, bringing his head down to Murtagh's eye level, _isn't that what you always do when we are together? _

Placing his hand on Thorn's snout, Murtagh began to caress the scales with a slow, irregular move, It is but… he trailed off, breaking the eye contact with the dragon, _your loud snoring often wakes me up, and that is unpleasant, _he quickly continued as he looked in another direction.  
With a quick push of his snout, Thorn had his Rider on the ground, is that what you think, little one? Asked Thorn, baring his teeth slightly, you never complained about my sleeping habits before.

Murtagh smiled sheepishly, turning his head to the right and pointing with his finger towards Shruikan, _it's…because of his fault as well. _

Thorn cocked his head in confusion, exchanging looks between Murtagh and Shruikan before a fierce snarl was displayed on his face, _your complaints are completely unjustified, but you would do well to get used to it, _said the ruby dragon, bringing his snout closer to the Rider's face, else you will sleep out in the cold with no protection against the cold wind of the night.

Murtagh remained stunned, with a look of both acceptance and fear on his face, _What other options do I have? _

Thorn snorted, pleased with the answer he received. Backing off a few feet, Thorn allowed his Rider to get up.  
Brushing his clothes off the remains of vegetation mixed with dust, Murtagh rushed towards Thorn's side. _You dragons could never allow a human to be right, _he snickered, releasing the bags that were strapped on the back of the saddle.  
_Because that would not be right, little one, _Thorn growled playfully as he watched his Rider struggling with the bags.

After a short while, Murtagh succeeded in releasing the bags as he threw them on the ground, a pleased look on his face.  
There, you can go and feast on those deer now, he said, reaching into a bag to check its contents.  
_I will not go with this thing upon my back, _Thorn growled and turned his head around, biting at the saddle that was placed on his back. After successfully gripping it with his strong jaws, Thorn violently shook his head.

"N-No don't do that!" screamed Murtagh as he rushed at the dragon's side, but he was too late. After a quick jerk of Thorn's head, the saddle's straps gave away as the object was sent flying through the air, landing in the nearby cluster of trees.  
Thorn growled in happiness after the bothersome object was removed from his back. Murtagh simply stood there, dumbstruck by the actions of his dragon.  
After taking another look in the direction where the saddle flew, he frowned and looked into Thorn's eyes, was it really needed for you to do that? I was only steps away from-  
Thorn released a soft growl, brushing his snout against Murtagh's shoulder with affection, _I apologize, little one, but my scales were itching because of it. _

The apologetic tone in Thorn's voice made Murtagh chuckle as he gently patted the side of his snout, _don't worry about it, I'll find a way to repair it. He said, pausing for a moment, now go, for we kept Shruikan waiting for more than it was necessary. _

Growling in acknowledgement, Thorn backed off and turned around so he could face Shruikan. As soon as the ruby dragon joined him, Shruikan took to the skies, shortly followed by Thorn.

Thorn followed Shruikan's lead while he sniffed the air for any potential prey that dwelled in the great forest below.  
The scent of several deer that were scattered over a small area entered his nostrils. Driven by the instincts of a predator, Thorn quickly turned in the respective direction, his wings barely moving as not to scare the potential prey.

Shruikan did a sharp turn, flapping his wings with haste. _Don't be reckless to hunt on your own, young one. This forest is too thick and the mighty trees could snap your wings to bits if you are not careful, _said Shruikan as he got ahead of Thorn.

Thorn growled angrily at the dire prospect of not being able to catch his own prey. Although his tail was troubling him to no end by affecting his flying skills, he could not stomach the idea of a dragon being unable to hunt.  
_I will find a way to catch my own deer, _answered Thorn quickly, scouting the land below with his vermilion eyes.

In time, you will, replied Shruikan calmly, but right now I will hunt for the both of us.

Thorn made no reply as determination clouded his judgement. He needed a boost in his confidence, and catching his own deer was the perfect way to prove to himself that he's not completely crippled. Turning his attention away from Shruikan, Thorn looked below. There were trees everywhere, with little spaces between them for a dragon to swoop down and end the life of a deer. Realizing that there was no possible way in catching something that was shielded by the branches of the trees, Thorn turned into another direction, separating himself from Shruikan.

The ruby dragon flew for a while in search of possible prey, and it was not long before he found the ideal place. In a small grove where the trees were scarce, there was a small herd of deer which grazed on the dry grass. The appetizing scent was irresistible, and Thorn quickly prepared himself for catching the tasty morsels. Flapping his wings steadily, he hovered above the small grove so he could position himself accordingly. Then, quick as an arrow, he pulled his body into a steep dive, folding his wings so he could descend from the sky before the deer would notice.

The air currents whistled past him as the ground was becoming clearer with each passing moment. Fixing his eyes on the deer that would soon lose its life, Thorn focused on the moment at hand, allowing nothing to distract him. However, his damaged tail had its own part to play in the hunt, and soon Thorn lost the perfect balance that allowed him to dive straight towards the deer. Panicking due to the approaching ground, Thorn quickly unfolded his wings and flapped them desperately in trying to gain more altitude before he would crash into the ground.

The deer scattered at the unusual sound of flapping wings which was approaching their location. Thorn managed to exponentially decrease his flying speed, but it was still not enough. Finding it impossible to find the right balance, Thorn struggled to maintain himself into the air before he touched the ground. A loud roar escaped him as the momentum dragged his body forward. His claws raked the ground as the dragon skidded forward, leaving deep gashes into the soil. Thorn growled loudly as he scrambled on his feet to maintain his balance. Ultimately, he failed to do so as he fell onto his belly with a surprised growl, raising a cloud of dust at the impact.

Thorn shook his head and expressed his feelings with a loud growl of frustration. Not only that he wasted a good opportunity to catch a large doe, but all the deer in the vicinity have been alerted by his presence and fled into the woods where they were impossible to reach.

Without anything better to do, Thorn placed his head on his paws, scolding himself for the hasty decisions he made. _It would have been better if I just followed Shruikan but…he already did so much for me… Thorn growled softly, sniffing the air for Shruikan's scent, but the dust and the smell of deer that permeated the area made it hard for the ruby dragon to smell the black dragon, I don't want him to see me like a helpless hatchling. _

Thorn spent his time alone thinking about how Galbatorix would react when the three of them would return to Uru'baen. The king would probably be in a good mood after his victory over the elder dragon and his Rider, for they were the last of the old Order.  
Something which Thorn could find no answer to was Shruikan's presence. He knew that the king had few restrictions concerning Shruikan's freedom, but could he be the one that sent him here?  
Questions with no easy answers swarmed around Thorn's head, who quickly dismissed them as he looked around for any signs of Shruikan.  
_He must have caught a big, juicy deer by now_, thought Thorn, lusting for the taste and the juices of the soft meat.

It was only a far away craving, however, for he could barely keep himself into the air in his current state. Thorn looked around once more before he placed his head on his paws, the tranquility and the silence that permeated the glen lulling him to sleep.

The weak, continuous sound of flapping wings seemed to be never ending as Thorn's dulled senses could not make the proper difference between the dream world and the real one. Coiling his body into a comfortable position to preserve the pleasant warmth, Thorn let his mind wander erratically through the never-ending plains that rolled below him.  
The freedom he felt was unlike any other feeling, for in the realm of dreams the chains of slavery which constricted him were but a distant, painful memory. The burden of the actions he was forced to commit against his will had also dissipated like frail, crumbling earth, its remnants scattered on the soothing winds.

Flapping his wings slowly as the suave air currents whistled past him, Thorn slowly descended from the sky, his eyes fixed on a familiar, yet undistinguishable shape.

The distance seemed to be nothing more than a puny obstacle as Thorn pulled his body into a dive, reaching an impressive speed. Yet something was wrong. No matter how fast he descended, the shape did not seem to get closer.  
Confused by the strange occurrence, Thorn turned his attention towards the ground which was rapidly approaching. Flapping his wings with might to decrease his momentum, Thorn stretched his legs in anticipation of the landing he was about to perform.  
The pristine white claws barely scratched when, out of a sudden, everything went black, with only the smell of fresh blood being noticeable amidst the engulfing darkness.

Sniffing the enticing scent instinctively, Thorn slowly came back to his senses as he lazily opened his eyes. The landscape did not change at all, save for the dim specks of light provided by the setting sun. Shaking his head sleepily, Thorn's nostrils twitched as he sniffed the air inquisitively

A soft growl, followed by a gentle touch on his neck roused Thorn from his sleep. Lazily opening his eyes, Thorn blinked a few times to clear his vision. Moments after he did that, the enticing scent of blood entered his nostrils. Turning his head towards the source of the smell, which was the carcass of a large deer, Thorn could not help but wonder how it appeared all of a sudden, and so close to his position.

Lifting his wing instinctively as something brushed against his side, just above his foreleg, Thorn craned his neck to check on the source of the disturbance.

_You can pick whichever you want, young one. _

Thorn was surprised to hear and even see Shruikan, whose amber eyes stared into Thorn's. The black dragon retracted his snout from Thorn's side, looking at the two deer which were lying on the ground, one close to each other.

_How did you find me? _Asked Thorn quizzically, licking his snout at the tasty morsels that waited to be devoured.

_It was not hard to distinguish your familiar scent out of the others, young one, said Shruikan as he briefly looked at the two deer, although I was careful not to lose the faint trail of scent that would lead me to you, I managed to track down two deer and kill them before they had the chance to retreat into the deeper forest. _

Thorn looked down, slightly ashamed of himself, _I apologize for ignoring your advice. It was a foolish mistake that offered me nothing in return, said Thorn, poking one deer with his snout, I was about to hunt one on my own, but I could not…_ he said, releasing a low growl of sadness as he could not contain the suffering he felt every time he thought about his tail.

Be concerned about it no further, Shruikan said gently and tore into his own kill, looking at Thorn expectantly, indicating that he should do the same. It is not going to last forever.

Thorn glanced at Shruikan with hopeful eyes, his blood drenched snout dripping the crimson liquid back into its host. It was not easy to accept the sacrifice of other dragon for their own benefits. While such actions brought them liberation in the end, it also included the same torture, the same agonizing procedure to funnel their own energy before an eldunari finally darkened. They did suffer, but the peace they would attain… it was so similar with his life, only that the peace had yet to come for him.

Lost in his thoughts, he only now realized that he had been staring dumbly at Shruikan's majestic form. Maybe the peace he had in mind—he and Murtagh had in mid—was a different form of peace. It was freedom. He wasn't free, but Shruikan's presence made him feel light and calm. It wasn't only a comforting thought, or the similar fate they shared, but the bond between them. Was it possible for Thorn to achieve peace by relying on the two beings he loved the most? The answer would was obvious, yet his pain, misery and shame for the incomplete tail blocked it.

_You'll need every ounce of strength, young one, _Shruikan said wisely, lifting onto his fours. _Galbatorix's patience runs shorter by the minute, and the prey is scarce on the way to Uru'baen. _

Thorn snorted in acknowledgment and tore into his carcass, gulping chunks of meat and severing sinews with his teeth, creating a bloody mess which the lesser fliers would be thankful for. After he finished, they both went searching for Murtagh. Thorn was unusually quiet on his way to him, pondering the meaning of his recent discovery. Peace attained through love while still a captive… maybe it was possible. Perhaps the answer lied in shielding away the misery, the dreadful tasks their received, the innocent lives they had claimed. It almost seemed selfish to forget everything, but at the same time, he never had a choice.

Murtagh's sleeping form soon came into view, an insignificant patch of clothing randomly tossed in a field like a mottled deer. Not even Thorn's footsteps woke him up, and he had to nudge his arm to get his full attention. Murtagh sprung onto his feet in alarm, his eyes big and filled with confusion, typical for one roused suddenly from his slumber.

"Wha-what?" he stuttered dumbly. In the end, he finally regained his composure after thought explained him their decision, and Murtagh accepted it without any objection. The thought of having him on his back was somewhat reassuring, and he could tell by the stupid smirk on his face that Murtagh shared a similar impression.

After Murtagh fastened the saddle on Thorn's back and tied the loose straps, he climbed lazily into the saddle, yawning fiercely.

_It's not me who will fall from the sky if I am not careful with tying the saddle, _Thorn growled, shifting to get used to the weight on his back.

_Think about the bright side, Murtagh said, patting the scales on his neck. At least this thought will keep you awake. _  
Shruikan, unperturbed by the words shared between the dragon and Rider, took off instantly, beating his wings furiously against the air currents. Thorn followed, but his grace paled in comparison to his onyx partner. Still, he cared not about it anymore. His mind could only think of one thing: Uru'baen, and that's where he and Murtagh were heading: Into the jaws of the beast.


	26. Predator and Prey

The gusts of wind kept ruffling Eragon's hair, the rebellious strings irritating his eyes, blanketing his vision. For the past few moments, the chilling winds from the west swept dirt laden gusts at him, forcing him to constantly clear his vision by brushing his dust filled hair aside. In the open plains, his body was naked, almost as vulnerable as his mind.

Thought after thought, worries and different plans converged in savage rapids, molding the foundation of his mind with their power. What was once a basic mind clad in morality, patched with different teachings about life and covered in a thick layer of instructions that taught one how to live from one day to another now turned into a real library lined with more books that the shelves could support. Eragon had a difficult time filtering each thought or possible solution through his untrained mind. He was never good at giving pompous advices or dealing with something that required acumen, not brawn. The battle was easy: kill or be killed, strike before the opponent had time to recuperate, avoid as many injuries as you can. But in front of the cascading thoughts, Eragon was tiny, helpless, unable to recuperate. It was a different battle, and the outcome would not be deadly, but the importance of wining was present.

Eragon liked to think that she knew Saphira intimately. As partners of mind and soul, there should be no boundaries between their minds. If so, then why was he having a hard time accepting her subtle disagreement? The whole land depended on their success, and failure was not an option. Eragon understood that. Saphira did too. Then why would she postpone the inevitable and accept a winding, darkening path which was more uncertain than fate itself? Even if she would find a possible mate by a miracle of chance, Galbatorix would capture them and the hatchling and seal Alagaesia's fate forever.

"No", Eragon said under his breath, his hands gripping the edges of the tunic. "I can't let that happening."

Blood flushed through his cheeks, adding color to the wan, bony face of the exhausted Rider. His brown eyes looked piercingly at the color torn sky above and his fists clenched.

"No," he said with a firm, determined voice. "We'll find the Rock of Kuthian and end Galbatorix's reign of chaos. If our happiness is a victory's tribute, then so be it."

Nuances of pink and orange rippled on the edge of the horizon where the incandescent sun began its ascension. The laden dew grass moistened Eragon's tan leather boots, the soggy texture acquiring the nuance of deer excrement. Eragon smiled when he looked at them and make the connection. In the woods, this was a hunter's method to track animals, and it was a pretty efficient one too.

After a tedious trek back to the makeshift camp, Eragon was surprised to find everyone almost ready for departure and disappointed, almost a bit angry that neither Angela nor Arya betrayed any clue that they might want to eat before the flight. From afar, Arya glanced at him with vivid emerald eyes and smiled uncertainly before she turned towards Saphira to strap the remaining saddle bags.

"Don't be so sulky and limp," Angela said compassionately, covering the remaining distance in several strides. "You make the morning look ugly, and when the nature is ugly it rains, and when it rains, mushrooms sprout, which is great, but now I can't pick them, and when it rains, Solembum's fur becomes soggy, and Solembum does not like his beautiful coat damp."  
Eragon nodded with an obvious lack of interest and did not even bother following Angela's enthusiastic gesticulation, her arms pointing at a myriad of things and her expression ever changing as if she was a very experienced story teller explaining to someone a much too captivating part of her life.

"I'm sure you don't like your clothes wet, Eragon," she giggled and hit him in the arm slightly, running towards Saphira.

_At least she has a good day_, Eragon thought bitterly and followed Angela. Eragon acknowledged Saphira with a hearty, genuine smile and prepared to climb onto her back when a sapphire wing buffeted, blocking his way.

_Little one, that was pathetic_, she gently chided and lowered her head to meet him. Feeling his defenses shattered, Eragon snorted and hugged her snout, allowing their bond to melt his worries and solidify most of the positive aspects. He was not alone anymore, and for that, he was grateful.

The harmonious sound of a steady beating of wings was usually music to Eragon's ears, the thrilling flapping overwhelming him with the absolute sense of freedom. In the air, he was no longer a mere human fettered by the fundamental rules that created this world. He defied them. With Saphira, he was a being of the sky as much as she was.

What was once bliss now became a monotonous bare, as if a once powerful magic has dissipated, leaving only shades of grey behind. Saphira's wings effortlessly hit the air, her mind and body engaged in a fight with a puny yet persistent force. It was a simple and irritating sound that embedded itself in Eragon's ears and repeat, then again, until its dull repetition summoned a state of lethargy. Eragon was already under its macabre influence, his head hung limply above his chest, eyelids threatening to blank her drousy emerald eyes. She too was caught in the same timeless dimension of lethargy.

Eragon wanted to fight against it and tell her something, but it never came. Only Angela seemed to resist it; her eccentric, mindless nature was much too peculiar to be contained. Ecstatic as a child, she smiled and pointed up and below, whispering something to Solembum. The curled werecat was calm and docile, yet his eyes sparkled with mysterious intelligence.

_Something is bothering you. _Eragon quailed and shifted in the saddle uneasily when Saphira suddenly shattered the unnerving silence.

_Many things bother me, _he said, trying to keep a low profile. He did not feel quite prepared to bring the night's discussion back to life and tell her just how much some simple thoughts could turn his mind into minced meat. When his mind was too busy to reply, the growl of his stomach had taken the opportunity to do so.

Saphira glared at him and hissed, angling her body downwards. Arya immediately started and let out a short, high pitched scream and Solembum growled and spat while Angela dug her hands on the saddle, squeezing the leather texture for dear life.

_You can't. I won't let you…_

_I know my predicament! _Eragon yelled in her mind. But there is no food here. Not for some of us. [/i]

_Eragon, I've seen skeletons looking healthier_, Saphira retorted. _Would you put your life in danger for some absurd, old and irrational principle? We are predators, not prey. _

_I'm not, _Eragon said uncertainly, looking back and forth at the other confused and apprehensive travelers. They were now in the middle of the plains, and even if Saphira was to land because of her indomitable resolution, it would only delay the promise of a hearty meal.

_It's only a small sacrifice. _I know what lack of food means. _When Garrow_… he suddenly stopped. In his state, even the mentioning of his name almost brought tears to his eyes. His image was still vivid in Eragon's mind, and his memories of the time spent as a farmer were as clear as they were back when his life had known no pain, or responsibility, or burden.

_You're being obstinate_, Saphira concluded, clearly unimpressed by the past. _There is no preservation in avoiding your part in the life cycle, and no predator dies of hunger because remorse crept up in its mind. _

_Then I'm a fortunate one, seeing as…_

_I will gather them! _Angela suddenly intervened, her voice merry and untroubled. _Fruits, berries, nuts, mushrooms, all will make their way into my bag to help a Rider in distress. _

Thank you, Eragon tried to say, but…

_But there is no forest here_, Angela remarked, looking below inquisitively. _If you land, then I will have to gather some plants, and it will take almost an entire day._

_No_, Eragon and Saphira replied in unison, much to Angela's displeasure. She immediately returned to her previous activity, pointing over yonder and whispering to Solembum. Saphira too seemed convinced by the barren nature of this land and pulled up, gaining as much altitude as she could before she settled on a demanding soar across the vast plains.

Saphira still tried to convince Eragon to give up his ideals in favor of the much needed nourishment, but he was a tough nut to crack. After enduring more than just simple hunger, Eragon was not about to betray Oromis's teachings or obliterate his bond with the nature because of Saphira's persistence.

White, fluffy clouds sometimes obscured the sun which had almost completed its ascension. Stiff, with his limbs aching and the back too rigid to allow flexible moves, Eragon welcomed the break from the prolonged flight. Saphira landed in a small glen overshadowed by mighty tall trees. A small brook meandered not far away, and Arya was the first one to dash towards it like a duckling. Having spent more time than she wanted in the saddle and slept on parched plain soil, it was obvious that she felt dirty and constricted by unpleasant smells.

Unlikely as it sounded at first, Angela jumped from the saddle before Saphira even landed and shot towards the forest, her slender petite form lithely jumping over small bumps in the ground and disappeared into the forest faster than Eragon thought it is possible for one of her physique. Although he felt better after reconciling with his inner self, Eragon needed more than just a momentary peace and silence to get over it. He needed to talk to Saphira. It was a good moment. But duty comes before personal affairs, and the sapphire dragoness barely had time to land properly before she took off, scanning the area for possible prey that might replace the pitiful meal she had the previous night and scouting the area for more landmarks.

Arya was the first to return to the fallen tree log which Eragon used as a personal support. It was also the most prominent object in the area and served as a camp mark. Her soggy raven hair hung like ribbons of black silk on her neck, and the frail at aspect but strong in reality arms lost their mottled aspect as water washed down the dirt and blood from the previous battle. Garbed in a new tunic and leggings, Arya was fresh like a forest pine in the morning, reborn in a cleansed body.

After she unfurled the bundle of wet clothes and placed them on the fallen tree trunk to bask in the sun, she sat a small distance away from Eragon, looking at him quizzically, as if he was unsure whether to respect an invisible consent they shared or refuse to do so.

"I don't—I mean, I'm not that dirty," Eragon finally answered when Arya's eyes settled on his tunic. His innocent answer immediately brought a smile on Arya's face, her features even more beautiful as lines perfectly curved on her cheeks.

"The smell hints different." Eragon was stunned for a moment. If Arya could notice it from that distance, then the previous flights…her proximity to him while on Saphira's back…

_It's downright embarrassing!_ Eragon thought and fled for the river in a heartbeat. As the water ran down, Eragon felt invigorated, powerful, and cold. The cool liquid sent tremors across his body every time he clenched his teeth and splashed another wave of freezing water on his upper body, repeating in his mind that the current one was going to be the last. Alas, the tunic was so stained and the blood so dried that his calculations could not be less accurate. Fortunately, there was still a spare tunic and leggings in one of the saddlebags, and Eragon did not even bother washing his previous clothes. The tattered tunic and the dingy leggings were abandoned in a bush as he made his way back to Arya.

When he returned, the first thing that came into his sight were two figures and a cat, and one of them, the elegant and majestic elf, was glaring at the scrawny, disheveled herbalist whose words, seemingly of praise, were only for Solembum. When Eragon noticed what the two small brown furred objects laying on the ground were, he frowned.

"It's Solembum who hunted them," Angela said, picking the two dead rabbits and showing them to Eragon. "He's a mighty hunter, just like Saphira."

Unsure of what to think just yet, Eragon settled next to Arya, opposite to Angela, who lay on the grass in front of her. As soon as Eragon's eyes fixed on the bag sitting next to Angela, a single question embedded in his mind.

"Of course, he's more agile than a dragon, his reflexes are sharper than Saphira's and he's not as prideful and self-important as she is." Eragon escaped a chuckle and Arya smiled wryly, but none of them dared contradict her. If Saphira was here, Angela would sorely regret her words.

"Feed, you bipedal goat," Angela said and threw the bag at Eragon's feet. There was a note of irritation in her voice, but Eragon cared more about the fruits than the gatherer, and his hands snaked on the fruits. He wolfed down the first one, which was in the verge of decay. It was quite disgusting, but hunger allowed no pretensions to taste. The others, however, were in a worse shape, and the rancid smell made Eragon's empty stomach lurch.

"This—this is…"

"This is what I could find, dear," Angela said calmly and moved around to pick several tried twigs which she placed in a pile, then used a spell to set them on fire.

Both Arya and Eragon looked at each other, puzzled by what this herbalist truly was. Maybe she was a sorceress like Trianna, or something more.

"Would you have washed if I hadn't told you?" Arya said with amusement. She was quite delighted that he was now clean, and when Eragon murmured something that was masked by Angela's shout when an ember jumped from the fire straight at her, Arya trudged closer to him. They were only at an arm's distance, and the smell of crushed pine needles allured Eragon's senses.

"If I didn't, then Saphira would have forced me to."

"What is it like?" Arya said. "What is it like to have a partner of mind and soul, to know what perfect understanding means, to live a double existence, with your world for yourself and its center present in your partner?"

Silence followed, and Eragon's mirth met a barrier. His bond wish Saphira was much too familiar to him, but explaining it to someone, even to Arya, was difficult.

"Is that what love is? It must be…" she trailed off, looking at the sky, at the trees, at the forest, and then into his eyes. "I thought I knew what it is. I was certain I grasped it once, but I have forgotten what it feels like."

"It feels…good," Eragon reassured her, still trying to find the right words to describe it.

"Eating this will make you feel even better," Angela said and turned around, showing the roasted skewered rabbit to Eragon.

His greedy eyes were mesmerized by its color, its textures, and the smell. The divine smell made his mouth water. Trying to break the temptation, Eragon shook his head and looked around for the other rabbit, which was now moving away. Solembum picked it into his mouth and retreated to a safe distance before he began gorging on it.

"We don't eat meat Angela," Arya said. "You ought to know that by now."

Eragon knew it. The thick barrier erected by his will, the wall that stood between him and the tasty morsel. Eragon borrowed this habit from the elves because it seemed right at that moment, when he trained with Oromis, but now, it was not only unfair, but illogical. Should he, as a predator, truly limit his functions to the ones of a prey simply because he tried to defy the nature's rules and follow the elves? Saphira's words rang clearly in his mind, an almost inevitable push. His eyes gleamed with ravenous hunger, and in an instant, he could not contain it any longer.

Before he even knew it, Eragon picked the rabbit from Angela's hand and wolfed it down despite Arya's strange look that resembled disappointment and Angela's smile of encouragement.

"That's more like it," she said and got up, striding towards Solembum who finished his meal too.

Arya had yet to recover from her surprise, and her gaze was now quite unnerving, when the rabbit was a pile of bones situated near Eragon's feet.

"I was hungry," Eragon finally admitted. He hoped that an honest excuse will get him through, but elves were quite vehement when it came to protect their tradition.

"I am hungry too, Eragon, but I'm not about to surrender to my instincts because of temptation."

"It's not like that," Eragon said sternly. "We are predators."

"We are what we choose to be," Arya said and lifted her body off the forest floor. "But predators are a part of this world as much as prey is. If there is a different way, is it necessary to act like a predator?"

"You are right, but I was born this way," Eragon added, but Arya did not fall for it. "It doesn't come that easy for me when Roran and Garrow relied on my hunting skills to survive." Eragon got up too, matching her powerful stare with his own. "It was a lifestyle for me."

"You already proved that you are capable of change," Arya said and prepared to head into the woods. Eragon tried to follow her, but just when they were about to leave the glen, the flapping of wings stopped them from continuing with their plans.

By the time Saphira landed, Angela was already near the fallen tree trunk with Eragon and Arya. After sharing her findings, the most significant being the lack of prey, Arya and Eragon buckled the saddle bags and assumed their usual positions in the saddle with Angela at the rear. It was going to be another long flight.

**I think the title is pretty good for this chapter, because it represents an important part of it. Well, it's finally another Eragon chapter! many of you have been waiting for it, so here it is, hoping that you will enjoy it.**

**I know it's been quite a while since I last updated, but I promise to get back on track and post the updates faster. It's becoming a little harder now, with all that plot burdening me, but I'll do my best. I dunno what to say about this chapter... it's quite a contrast of quality and non quality. Some parts are iffy, some are good. I quite liked the second half of it though.**

**Also, I got a grand total of 1 review for the last chapter. I think most of you were burned out with MxT chapters, so if you are still alive, show me that you like Eragon chapters more.**


	27. Lonely

The afternoon sun was shining bright in the sky, casting warm rays that made Saphira's scales glitter with a pleasant hue of azure deep blue. Even if there were no clouds on the sky, giving it an uniform blue appearance as dull as the plains that unfolded below, the low temperature acted against Eragon and the others, making him shiver uncontrollably while Arya sought solace in her makeshift support.

Her arms were gently wrapped around his torso, and ever since Saphira ascended to this altitude, she involuntarily moved closer and closer to him, lessening the distance between them until it was no more. She was like a moth attracted to light, only that this time, it was his warmth that brought her so uncomfortably close to him.

Eragon's face was red like a ripe apple, and every time he shyly glanced with the corner of his eyes at the majestic arms wrapped around him, he was reminded of her proximity.  
_  
__If only Saphira could descend a little…_ he thought, feeling an unnatural urge to hug himself, or anything that might make the cold disappear. But that was not possible, and the choice had already been made. The strain, in addition to the burden she was carrying sapped the energy out of Saphira, but the dragoness refused to rest. In order to lessen her exhausting plight, Eragon recommended her to soar high in the sky, where the air currents were beneficial for her and a vivid annoyance for him.

_Eragon, you're shivering like a leaf,_ Arya suddenly entered his mind, making him start and release the saddle support he was holding. At the same time, Saphira flapped her wings and pushed forward, causing Eragon's body to slide into Arya, who almost lost balance herself were it not for her contracted thigh muscles holding steadily.

"I-I'm fine", he said, glancing uncertainly at Arya. Because of his recent maneuver, her head rested on his shoulder, her cool face touching his hot, cherry colored cheek. It was like a spring of pure water rushing through a fiery blaze, drenching its confidence incinerating flames with a wave of reassurance.

_I've been through this before_, Eragon said, doing it mentally this time to prevent his words from being lost into the wind.

_Are you sure?_ Arya said and retracted her head slightly, reducing the powerful and fascinating smell of pine needles to a dull trace. _I thought Riders are accustomed to flying, no matter the conditions. _

_You are confusing me with a dragon,_ Eragon remarked, failing to pick the hint of irony in her voice. Arya, who seemed lighthearted and open just a moment ago immediately reacted to his reaction and drew back, easing her grip and allowing cold wind to whistle through the gap created by the schism of their upper bodies.

_Is that why you have eaten that rabbit? _  
_  
__I just…I didn't… _Eragon stuttered. Why he pounced on the rabbit like a starving, mindless beast was a mystery to him too, and he could only blame the hunger for it. However, Arya was hungry too, and she held her composure, her strength of will never dwindling.

_Is it a blunder to be what you are? _Eragon finally snapped, raising his voice a little. _I don't possess a strong self-control like you, nor is it in my nature to ignore an opportunity when it arises. My appearance may have changed, but my core has yet to polish_. Eragon paused, and Arya said nothing. With tender moves, she put a silken palm on his shoulder, proving that his words were not alien to her.  
_  
__I tried_, he said softly. _I'm still trying to understand my position in this world, but if everything is built upon sacrifices, can I be certain I made the right choice? __  
_  
_Not you, nor Saphira or the Varden, not even a creature of the forest will fall victim to this vicious cycle. It's this malevolent chain that breeds enmity and hatred, which in turn lead to revenge._ Eragon's mind drifted towards Galbatorix, with his ominous face and cold, emerald eyes that oozed more than simple hatred. The possible sacrifice of his dragon, the refusal of sacrificing a dragon egg for Galbatorix's irrational request. One single element, as small and insignificant as it appeared to the rest of the world, was enough to provide momentum to what would later be known as The Fall.

_I like you for what you can be, Eragon,_ Arya said, moving her hand from his shoulder across his abs and settle in an embrace. _Not for what you are trying to be. _  
_  
__Arya, how can you be sure… _

_Listen_, she interrupted, her warm, soothing voice compelling him to do as she said. Saphira was now flying at a lower altitude, where the wind was more forgiving. Constantly, it whistled past his ears, the sound almost melodic, with its own life fueled by the rhythm that described its free, wild nature.

_The wind does not follow a pattern, even if it sometimes tricks you into thinking it does. The grace of it, its caressing feeling, its wild nature, they all take shape because of its nature. The wind blows freely, and its unplanned nature is what makes it beautiful. _

_If it would stop whistling, or ravage the world with its relentless gusts, would it still be beautiful? _

_No,_ Eragon said, a bit puzzled by the connection Arya made. _But the wind is not burdened by what rests on my shoulders. It's connection with the world is far deeper than our own, for it is a part of the rules that govern the land. _

_Yet it never seeks for the absolute, or aim to achieve a perfect rhythm. It is content with its random nature. _

_I'm not trying to be perfect,_ Eragon said. _I know that is not possible. _  
_  
__Nevertheless, you are still trying,_ Arya remarked. _You didn't eat meat, even if it came from an already dead being, and that incertitude affected you. _

Eragon was at a loss of words. Calm and warm as a river in the summer, Arya's voice flowed through his mind, washing away the filth produced by a mind too young and burdened. He still didn't fully comprehend the meaning of her words, but the feelings that stemmed from it made his skin bristle and his breath increase in rate. His body felt unusually warm and he wished to escape this feeling, were it not so pleasantly confusing.

_We can rediscover ourselves by learning from nature,_ Arya said, sliding closer to his back until the distance between them was no more, and she leaned her light head on his shoulder. _It never tries to be perfect, yet necessity, combined with the force that breaths life into everything is exactly what makes it sublime. __  
_  
Eragon felt himself sinking in a state of peace, where everything was quiet and enjoyable, where concerns and worries vanished like vapors of warm air. This exhilarating feeling slowly recharged his depleted strength and mended wounds that had yet to close, giving him the power to fight anything that might threaten to obliterate it.

Lost among unknown feelings and pleasant thoughts, Eragon barely noticed that Saphira was looking at him. In order to get his attention, she had to growl, even if she could just enter his mind.

_I cannot keep on much longer. We will land at the fringe of that thick forest in the distance. _

Saphira leaned her body to the right, allowing the wind to carry her towards the forest she mentioned. Unlike Eragon, whose attention was diverted sideways because of outer interference, Angela's keen eyes spotted the forest right away, and such occasion was too much of an achievement to miss. Moments before they landed, Angela began to brag about how she and Solembum were the first to sense the forest and it's because of them that everyone would enjoy a moment of rest, and if possible, even a meal.

As always, Angela jumped from Saphira's back and lurched heavily when she hit the ground, threatening to fall before she regained her footing and dashed happily towards the forest, Solembum padding besides her. Arya's pleasant and light embrace faltered as she too climbed down from the saddle. She briefly informed Eragon that a walk to remove the stiffness from their limbs would be beneficial in a manner that allowed a subtle invitation for him, but before he could answer, Saphira interfered by nuzzling his arm affectionately, snorting warm gusts of air.

_Little one, curl beside me,_ she said, unfolding her inviting wing. Eragon glanced at Arya uncertainly and when she made no reaction, he lay down, leaning against Saphira's ribs.

"I will gather something to eat too," she said briefly and left. Eragon, still unsuspecting what was about to come, or the unusual nature of Saphira's sudden interference, patted her scales lovingly and allowed pride and love to flow across their link. In response, Saphira growled softly and nuzzled Eragon in a more affectionate way than usual.

_What's happening to her? _Eragon thought, perplexed by how Saphira kept pushing his body near her belly protectively, nuzzling and growling strangely.

_She is starting to open herself to you. I have seen it,_ Saphira said.

Eragon was taken aback by her observation, but he didn't fret too much. _She's my friend. I won't let her bear the burden of loneliness, not after everything she has lost due to this war_, he said with conviction.

Saphira shifted her body, bringing her hind paws under her belly. Slowly, she raised her long elegant neck and placed her chin on top of her front feet, exhaling loudly.  
_  
__Every being despises loneliness and seeks the company of its kin, be it for even one blissful moment. If this terrible feeling cannot be combated, if a being can not reproduce and complete its part in the life cycle, can one know it ever lived? _

Eragon was shocked, his eyes bulged and face pale. Her words impaled him, his previous mirth leaking out from his tattered being in discontinuous waves. More antagonizing, however, were her feelings of deep loneliness, sadness and hopelessness that flowed across their bond, unrestrained by Eragon's previous share of positive emotions.

Noticing that something was wrong, Saphira glanced at Eragon briefly and growled fiercely, fluttering her wings once before she settled on her position. The depressing and painful flow of her suffering came to an end, but Eragon could still not recover from his shock. He simply lay there, hugging himself, shivering slightly.

_Sa-Saphira,_ he tried to break through his numbness. _You are…not alone. Never._

_Little one,_ she said with saddened yet caring voice. _I couldn't control myself. This burden is not yours to bear._ She craned her neck and pushed her snout into his body, growling strangely and brushing her soft, sensitive scales against his chest and face.

_You are not alone, _Eragon said, hugging her snout. _You will always have me._

Saphira withdrew her head and looked at him with saddened sapphire eyes._ I cherish the bond between us more than anything, but there are things even you cannot provide. _

Eragon frowned slightly, but said nothing. He was hurt. Hurt because of the suffering of his partner of mind and soul. While Eragon was capable of sympathizing with her more than anyone, he dreaded the thought of being alone in the world, without a mate by his side.

_You can never fly besides me and test our flight skills. We can never play the brutal, fighting sharpening battles of dragons because your body is fragile and weak._

Saphira curled her tail, pushing Eragon slightly in a warm embrace as she closed in her head to watch him in the eyes.

_Most important, Eragon, is that we cannot mate. You cannot give me hatchlings, no matter how strong our love is. _

A growl of distress escaped her, the mournful sound bringing a tear in Eragon's eyes, despite the shock suffered because of Saphira's words. He never quite comprehended the reality of her situation, and now, it hit him harder than Galbatorix's sword thrust. Yet even so, their possibilities were tied up. As much as he hated to admit it, Eragon summoned his courage and stared into Saphira's eyes.  
_  
__You will have a mate. After Galbatorix is gone, so shall your loneliness die._

**I do not like the ending, but I had to choose between keeping Saphira as her usual self and make her OOC and a bit more to my liking. Hope I did it right, because if not, I will edit it tomorrow. So, we have a little ExA and some important talk between Eragon and Saphira, which is also a bit short. Maybe the next chapter will continue it, but I'll see. For now, I think the essential has been passed on and we're ready to see what's up with Roran and the bonus chapter.**


	28. Her Fiery, Long Hair

_…we need Roran… mission… something that I cannot... _  
The vague words which did not seem to make any sense were barely understood by the man who was comfortably resting in a small, yet comfortable cot. A slight grunt escaped his mouth when he finally deciphered their meaning.

The voices, for there were two, one lighter than the other, stopped briefly as Roran turned to his side and covered himself, his shoulders and his head disappearing under the woolen blanket that kept him warm.

"I know very well what he went through, for I am a part of the fortunate ones that are blessed and cursed to live another day and see the grief and sorrow this war brings forth, but we all have a duty-"  
The deep voice suddenly stopped as the lighter one, which belonged to a female stopped it short.

"Then you understand why duty can wait for a little longer until my husband wakes up. His mind is still tired from the unexpected chain of events he had to go through… Galbatorix's unexpected appearance and Eragon's sudden departure have troubled him ever since that fateful day…" came a silent, yet hasty reply.

Finding himself unable return to his state of complete relaxation, Roran briefly opened his eyes before shifting his position yet again.

"I will wait no longer than the few moments it takes for a man of his rank to come to his senses and prepare for his duty accordingly," answered the man, his heavy footsteps announcing his hasty departure. The female sighed and moved towards the cot with slow steps, her leather sandals and frail composure barely making a noise on the stone covered ground.

Roran barely suppressed a smile that was about to stretch over his face when the wooly blanket was slowly removed, exposing his head and neck to the slightly cooler atmosphere inside the house.  
Then, a soft, delicate hand gently brushed against his right shoulder before it slowly moved to the left, caressing his back in the process.  
"Roran… Roran, my beloved, I know you are tired, but you need to wake up…"

The soothing voice and the slight, yet pleasant touch of Katrina's warm hands calmed Roran even more, and the message whispered upon the soft voice of his wife lost any meaning as the ethereal realm of dreams slowly gripped the man with its delicate ropes.  
Becoming more oblivious to what was happening around him, Roran found himself back in his home village of Carvahall.

Surrounded by large, verdant fields that produced healthy crops which would supply him and his family with enough food during the harsh winter, Roran heard a familiar voice calling for him. Turning his attention towards the familiar voice, he moved slowly through the thick corn field that obscured his vision. Using his hands to remove the crops that arose in front of him, Roran allowed his steps to carry him closer to the source of the soothing, melodic voice.

The bright light of the sun blinded him briefly as he exited from the thick vegetation.  
Slowly opening his eyes, Roran spotted the image of Katrina who was looking at him kindly, her hands stretched in a welcoming grip. Behind her, there was a smaller shape that seemed to belong to a young human, yet its shape was perfectly concealed behind Katrina's dress.  
Roran eyed Katrina's fiery red hair and gentle, brown eyes briefly before a wide grin spread across his face, then ran towards her.

A light slap on the back of his neck jolted Roran back to awareness, his eyes snapping open.  
"What… what's wrong?" he asked, a bit confused by the sudden contact that ripped him from his dream.

"I tried to wake you up with the use of different methods, but none worked until I had to resort to the last one."  
Katrina lowered her body, bringing her head to the same eye level as Roran's. "Waking up a tough man such as you requires more than a simple kiss," she said quickly before he kissed him on the forehead. "And a bit of massage as well," she added with a smile.

Roran pulled her closer to him and hugged her lovingly. "Now, don't get any new ideas about how to wake me up. You know how much I enjoy the old."

Katrina hugged him back and patted him slightly. "That I know, my love, but sometimes a simple slap is more effective than a kiss."  
Both of them laughed lightly before Katrina slowly pulled away from Roran's embrace, kissing his neck lovingly before she broke away from him.

Roran released an almost inaudible moan and stretched his hand, but he failed to grab Katrina's hand as she quickly moved back, a wide grin spreading on her face.

"You're so slow this morning, my love," she said teasingly and moved over to the small table which had a multitude of comestibles placed on it, including a large bread, fruits and a piece of cheese. "Get ready quickly, for a soldier is waiting for you outside. He said something about a task being assigned to you, but I managed to stall him long enough for you to eat a proper meal before you depart."

While Katrina was busy with the food, Roran jumped out of his cot, equipping the leather boots which were placed on the side.  
"So that's why you were so hasty," mumbled Roran as he stretched his hand towards a small chair, grabbing the tunic and the pants which were laid on it.

"I heard a small part of your conversation as well, but my thoughts were not very clear at that point," said Roran on a relaxed tone, trying to hide the worries that crept inside him. If Katrina would see him getting worried, then it would pain him even more to leave her behind, knowing that a mission could go wrong at any time.

Luckily, Katrina was too focused on her task to notice Roran's worries as she released a light giggle. "That is the result of sleeping long after the middle of the night."

Roran quickly equipped his usual outfit and reached for his trusty hammer, which was placed below the cot.  
"But that time was not spent in vain…"

"And I enjoyed every moment of it," replied Katrina, turning around with the large iron plate in her hands.

"Everything is prepared," she smiled, placing the plate on Roran's lap. "Now eat, and do it quickly, because I do not know how long that soldier is willing to wait."

Katrina's determination erased some of Roran's worries as he focused his attention on her beautiful smile, then on the plate that was handed to him. Realizing that his time was limited, Roran quickly thanked her and began to eat with haste, munching on the soft, salty cheese and the slightly toughened bread.

A knock on the wooden door made Katrina jolt in surprise, while Roran lifted his head and looked at the door through furrowed eyebrows.

"Stronghammer, I believe I gave you enough time to prepare yourself accordingly. Now, be quick, for I broke my word for even letting you take your time like you did," came a voice from the outside.

Putting the plate aside, Roran quickly swallowed the remains of the food he had in his mouth and grabbed the hammer from his cot.

"I hope we will not be parted for long, Roran. It is unjust for Nasuada to use you like she does," Katrina said, quickly covering the short distance between the two of them.  
Roran smiled as she grabbed his arms, looking at him with her pure brown eyes which radiated an aura of worry.

"What task could you receive after the king himself has come to our doorstep not even three days ago? "

Roran smiled as Katrina's soft hands gripped his own. "I know no more than you do, but it cannot be something of importance," he said calmly, then kissed one of her hands. "Although we had our loses, we won a great victory against the empire by taking control of this city. Nasuada will not-"

"But what if she does, Roran?" asked Katrina worriedly. "What if she will send you away for days? I cannot be separated from you, not when…" she said softly, running her hand across her slightly bulged belly.

Roran sighed and quickly hugged her, smoothly running his hand across her back. "Do not worry, Katrina, for I can decline certain tasks as long as they are not mandatory for me to complete them," he said soothingly, slowly pulling away from the loving embrace of his wife. "We will be reunited soon, I promise."

Roran barely finished what he had to say as he was gripped firmly by Katrina's hands and pulled into a long, unexpected kiss that only increased his determination to return back as soon as possible.

"Take care of yourself, Roran…" said Katrina slowly as she released Roran from her embrace.

Roran exhaled softly, wishing that he was able to remain in Katrina's arms for as long as he could, but that was only an idealistic dream. As long as the war kept going, he knew that he would never be able to have the life he wished to because of his compelling duties that parted him for his wife every time a new problem arose.

"I will… you have my word," answered Roran shortly, kissing Katrina one more time before he stood up. He passed through the door with quick steps without looking back, for every moment he spent inside while delaying the inevitable pained him.

**What a sweet chapter. I totally enjoyed writing it. Before you mention it, I'm quite aware that it is quite short and not very informative in terms of plot, but the last time I included multiple things happening at the same time(see Tenga chapters), most of my readers focused on something and lost the big picture. This time, I will do it properly and split this part from the rest, because it's an introduction of sorts.**

**The next chapter is going to be longer and will be posted in the weekend, as soon as I finish and give it some final edits.**


	29. Prestov

"Good to see you are finally up."

After he closed the door behind him, Roran was approached by a man who looked like a common soldier. His short, grey hair and the beard mottled with silver tints told much about his age, but no more than his deep, grey eyes which analyzed Roran inquisitively.

"Roran Stronghammer," he said, approaching in a steadfast manner. Roran was a bit taken back by the stature and the imposing look of this middle aged man, who was no doubt more experienced than he was. He almost believed that an ample discussion about his late arrival would start until a smile on the man's face proved otherwise.

"I am pleased to meet you. I am Prestov, one of the Varden's captains and military leader for small operations," he said firmly, extending his hand.

Roran gripped his hand and shook it with respect. "I would introduce myself, but you already know my name."

His light and concern-free voice made the man's smile extend a bit further as he took a step forward, looking him in the eyes.

"The feats you accomplished are not simple deeds for a man your age, Stronghammer. Many of the soldiers I know would have failed where you succeeded, and perish when your determination and skills earned you another day in this world."

"I only pressed on because of the desire to save my wife from the Empire's clutches and keep her safe for as long as I draw breath. For that, no one can stand in my way, be it a foul beast like those dark, long beaked monsters or the empire's soldiers."

"A sound reason it is."

The man grunted, and then motioned for Roran to move forward. "What I heard about your determination is true, Stronghammer, but you are a simple man, just as I am, and you know that there will come a time when your hammer will not be strong enough to break the wall laid ahead of you."

Roran thought a bit about Prestov's words, but did not pay a great deal of attention to them as his conviction was most of the times enough for him to surpass the obstacles that arose in his path.

"That may be true, but that time is not now," he said shortly, then turned his head towards the older captain. "What is the reason for taking me away from my wife?"

Although he tried to keep his calm, Roran could not suppress the irritation and regret he felt for leaving Katrina alone not even a week after the Varden captured the city of Feinster. With the cold season approaching and the Varden's need to partially reorganize themselves as the citizens reinforced their ranks, Roran hoped for a moment of peace, a moment long enough for him to see his first born child.

The man eyed him briefly before looking straight forward, avoiding making eye contact. "You have probably heard the rumors about Nasuada, Stronghammer. After all, you are the cousin of Eragon Shadeslayer, the one free Rider and also Nasuada's vassal," the man paused and looked at him with a blank expression." That reason alone was enough for you to be closer to Nasuada than any other captains, except her military advisors.

Roran's eyebrows partially frowned as he shook his head. „Maybe you are right, but I did not think so deeply about it. All the time I spent after the siege was beside my wife, so I could not hear the rumors you speak of."

Prestov acknowledged with a nod, then continued. "Very well. I only asked because it was easier to explain if you heard them with your own ears."

Roran waited expectantly, but the shouts and the mumbling of the citizens that went past him were not dwarfed by the captain's powerful voice. Taking advantage of this short moment, Roran focused his attention on the road ahead, which was bustling with activity. Men and women of all ages and even a few dwarves went past him, minding their daily lives. The familiar sound of a saw cutting through a plank of wood and the bolts being struck down by metal hammers reverberated through one of the city's main streets as the workers were slowly rebuilding the buildings which were damaged during the siege.

The stone paved street they were walking was reasonably wide to allow larger carts filled with goods to pass through and was mostly straight, taking only a few turns between the larger buildings due to their reasonable placement.

"The visit Galbatorix paid to his city, which is now ours, had many repercussions among the citizens and the higher command. Not only that he took us completely by surprise, but not even Eragon could rise to the height of his expertise with the sword and the magic alike. It was only through a miracle that he left without producing more damage and taking more lives than he already did."

Prestov's voice trailed off until he spoke in a lower voice, "But that is not the cause of our worries. He achieved what he came for by delivering a clear message to all of us, a message that left visible scars…"

Roran scratched his shoulder and looked at Prestov quizzically. "I was there when Galbatorix came, but I prefer not to dwell too much on what happened."

His mind went briefly to Eragon who left Feinster without even saying a word, be it about his motives or simply telling him and Katrina about his departure.

Focusing on the present, Roran continued, "What was it you wanted to say about Nasuada?"

Prestov extended his hand and gestured towards a nearby building. Realizing that he wanted to stop, Roran moved towards the building and leaned against the wooden support of the porch, eyeing the captain.

Clasping his hands together, Prestov looked at him with a calm, yet worried expression. "Different rumors about Nasuada's welfare and her military capabilities have spread among the ranks of our soldiers. It's not hard, even for common men to see that she isolated herself in the commanding building, going out only when it is absolutely necessary."

Roran raised an eyebrow. "Wasn't she always like that? "

Prestov's grey eyebrows met in a slight frown as the man brushed his hands against one another. "Her isolation is not only a physical one, Stronghammer. Only a few orders came from her during these days, and even those were laced with the shadow of doubt. Those with high position are not supposed to say anything about it, but Galbatorix's visit has disrupted the natural order that kept our bricks together."

Roran placed his fist under his chin, looking down at the stone paved ground for a moment before he resumed eye contact with the elder captain, "I…I don't understand. She never doubted a moment of her decisions, and now…"

The image and the shouts of the boiling atmosphere that occurred at the meeting shortly after the commanding officers learned about Galbatorix's arrival unexpectedly flashed before Roran's eyes.

…_you heard what happens to us humans when we clash swords with Galbatorix… he obliterates us…._

…_.you forced Eragon to fight against an opponent much stronger than him while you hide like scared animals in their den…_

_...That boy will not win the war for us... You heard what happened to Arya and them elves... They were more, and they all failed..._

The vivid string of events was still fresh in his mind, but the most prominent image was of fear, reflected naturally on Nasuada's face.

A low grunt coming from Prestov brought Roran's mind back to the present.

"That is what I heard, Stronghammer, not what I have seen with my own eyes. These are just simple rumors, not real facts," he paused for a bit as two travelers passed by, then continued, "I know you wished that these were but simple words weaved together by a simple citizen, but there has to be some truth in these rumors. There has to be…"

Prestov's voice trailed off as his grey eyes fixed themselves on the broken blade of a sword which was safely concealed between the bricks of the stone pavement. Realizing that the man lost himself in his musings, Roran turned his eyes away from the piece of metal and looked towards the large keep whose impressive architecture and size rose high above the common dwellings.

A firm pat on his shoulder caused Roran to shudder slightly at the unexpected contact.

"We're not going there," said Prestov as he moved forward, looking towards the smaller road that forked from the main one.

Roran eyed him with puzzlement, his attention switching between the smaller road and the keep. "Why not? That's where-"

"Not at the moment," the deeper voice cut him off. "The one who told me to meet up with you, who is a member of the council, asked me to lead you to the barracks, and that's what I am going to do," finished Prestov, assuming a knightly position as he took the lead, his head held high and his arms firmly placed besides his body.

_The council, eh? Maybe the rumors are true, after all, _thought Roran, quickly covering the short distance between the two of them. Moving beside Prestov, the two captains walked through the narrow alley that soon gave way to a large place which was bustling with activity: the market row.

Shouts and voices of different intensities and tones could be heard as soon as the two exited the narrow alley. A large, circular area surrounded by common buildings was the chosen place for commerce and trading of Feinster's citizens that placed their booths side by side, forming various rows. Although they came in different shapes, sizes and even colors, depending on the type of the material they were made of, the equal distance between the booths gave the place an even and organized appearance.

Away from the heart of the marketplace, other merchants have set up their trading points in various places around the circular space, filling up the barren edges with different colors and sights, depending on the merchant.

The amount of people which were present at the market place was relatively low, but that was not something out of the ordinary. After seeing that some of the merchants were still busy setting up their camps, Roran realized that it was still early and the peak activity would begin when the sun would be high in the sky.

Roran continued to look around for a bit until Prestov's voice attracted his attention.

"Let us go around, past those merchants over there," he said, making a circular gesture with his hand.

Frowning, Roran looked at the path which led straight towards the barracks. "I thought we were in a hurry, captain," he said on a slight teasing voice.

The captain was not bothered by Roran's comment, completely ignoring him for a brief while before he replied back, "We are, but don't you see anything out of the ordinary?"

The inquiring voice immediately startled Roran's interest. After only a short while, a low grunt escaped him as he could see the meaning behind Prestov's words. The reason why the pathway to the barracks was clear was because there were no citizens that blocked his vision.

At a closer inspection, he noticed that all the merchants which occupied the row of booths had the same bad luck as a large part of the citizens were gathering around the trading points which were placed on the edge of the marketplace.

_It indeed makes little sense… Those merchants must be offering something special to attract that kind of attention, _thought Roran. He prepared to let the captain know that he is ready until a faint voice was heard not far behind him.

"… and you wanted to abandon a discussion which had more meaning so you could speak about Eragon?"

"That be true! Nasuada may lead the Varden, but he's the one that gives us hope…or should I say, gave," another voice answered shortly after.

A chuckle followed shortly after. "I heard the coward ran away after the defeat he suffered at Galbatorix's hands. I expected him to be tougher and die like a man instead of fleeing."

Roran clenched his fists as the two men slowly approached his location, something which could easily be noticed by the increasing sound of their voices.

A low laughter escaped from the other man's throat. "Aye aye, and ya know what? The king will still hunt him down like the rat he is, so he won't escape tha' easily," he said excitedly, barely restraining himself from laughing. "Maybe he will stop caring about us altogether."

His companion chuckled, sharing his partner's enthusiasm. "The brainless brat. He's even more defenseless without us while he's on his own. He thinks we're too weak to aid him since he became the half elf freak he is now."

That was it. As soon as the words finished exiting the man's mouth, two loud laughs erupted from the throat of the two men.

The delight they took from bashing Eragon made Roran's blood boil as he turned around, facing the two of them which were oblivious to the murderous stare that was directed at them.

"Speak one more word against my cousin and I will make sure that you will come to regret whatever will come out of your mouth," said Roran venomously as his hand instinctively moved towards the hammer which rested at his hip.

The two men threw Roran long, questionable looks before they both giggled.

"Ye don't look like him," said one of them shortly.

His companion slapped him across the head, obtaining a low grunt in response.

Adopting a serious look, the man stretched his back and then crossed his arms. "Sir we certainly didn't speak anything bad about your cousin that would stain his reputation and put ourselves in a bad light."

Roran barely understood something from the quickness of the man's tongue. However, his resolve did not weaken as he moved forward, lessening the distance between the two of them.

"I heard every whisper and every word that you two uttered before you began laughing like two drunken Empire soldiers."

The two men looked at him wearily, but only the one that was slapped across his head by his companion allowed his feelings to betray him. His fearful eyes did not seem to linger upon a focus point for longer than a moment, and his hands trembled slightly.

"We…we were just over here while you were over there, an...and the distance between here and there is big! You cannot hear from there what we talked from over here because the sound there which comes from the people over there can be confused to what we talked over here, so you actually heard something which came from over there, not from here!"

Roran barely restrained himself for not grinding some sense into the two men who made a mockery of Eragon's name, starting to speak complete nonsense right after they were caught in the act.

"Leave them be, Roran. It doesn't worth it," said Prestov, gesturing to the two of them to leave.

"Y…yes sir! I will just go… over there," giggled the jittery men before he ran away, closely followed by his companion.

"Why did you dismiss them so easily? Were it not for Eragon, those two would probably have their heads meters away from their bodies!" snapped Roran, his face acquiring a cherry-like color as blood rushed through him.

"I am aware of that, and we owe much to Eragon," said Prestov firmly, his eyes acquiring a tiny hint of coldness as the captain narrowed his gaze."However, you are a captain, a leader, and you must not lower yourself to the level of a drunk peasant by putting more hay on the fire."

Roran exhaled loudly and briefly eyed Prestov before he looked in another direction, anything that would keep his mind off those two excuses of soldiers.

"I understand," he nodded slowly, dragging his voice as if he wanted to say something more, but no words came out of his mouth.

A short moment of silence followed before the clinging of Prestov's metallic boots disturbed it as he moved forward.

"This was an unnecessary delay, but we will not go to the barracks yet," he turned his head back, gesturing towards the merchants he spoke about earlier.

Nodding his head, Roran followed him as he walked towards the small camps at a brisk pace.

**This was a long time coming, delayed by sudden events such as the crashes and my own schedule. To make up for it, I'll give you the next update as soon as I finish it, maybe even this sunday. So, things actually start to pick up in speed. The Roran chapters will get more and more interesting, as you can see, and this will only herald the arrival of more prominent problems. As you can see, Eragon's departure did not look good at all to the Varden. **

**There's something else I'd like to get your attention on. Consider it as a reward for my readers in exchange for your reviews. If I get more than 8 reviews for each chapter, until the Roran chapters are over, I'll write some bonus chapters that mark a significant stage of the story. THIS IS NOT A REVIEW OR THE STORY DIES THREAT! It's like I said, a reward versus a...small bit of time on your behalf. I definitely think it is worth it, and I'm curious if this is going to work. I chose an unlikely number, given the history of the reviews, because it's really worth it. However, it doesn't have an impact on the plot. Consider it an explanation of sorts, when time arrives. It involves Eragon's journey, if you are so curious, and I think the bonus I'm talking about is at least 2 chapters or 1 big chapter.  
**


	30. Food

**I will not post the bonus chapters for the lack of trade tokens(reviews). This will, however, not affect the plot in any way. It was just more insight into an important moment that was related to Eragon/Saphira/Arya/Angela journey.**

The mumblings and the voices of those which were gathered around the merchant became clearer to Roran as he approached the small gathering. Taken aback by the light atmosphere which was animated by laughter, chuckling and good will, Roran inspected the merchant's offers with his own eyes. Such good will, in spite of the recent events, raised his suspicion, no matter Roran's own beliefs in miracles. They did not exist. A man had to hammer his way through life with only his will and expertise to guide him.

The camp, which was structured in three separate parts was ran by a young, bearded man and a young boy who moved from place to place with alacrity in his steps, trying to be as useful as possible. To the left, a medium sized campfire surrounded by different sized pots crackled, spraying tiny embers. Only the smoke of the fire which slowly rose towards the sky was clearly visible among the different objects, the biggest of them being a cauldron which was placed over the fire, its weight supported by a metal frame that was placed a few feet above the cherry red charcoal.

In the direction opposite to the cauldron, a similar fire was burning with even greater intensity as its orange flames licked at the large chunks of meat skewered by a metal rod. With the help of two metal frames which held it above the fire, the meat was emanating a pleasant, enticing smell as it slowly cooked.

The quantity of meat that was stored away from the campfires, in a hefty wagon, surprised Roran: different sized chunks, legs, and even entire heads which belonged to different species of animals were among the treats which waited for the burning fire to roast them.

Roran squinted through the crowd, trying to get a better view of the man who appeared to be responsible for the sudden abundance of food in Feinster. With the Varden's diminishing supplies and the grain supplies burned and pillaged during the siege and the following chaos, such a feast would attract the whole city.

_I have never seen this man before, yet he appears at our doorstep with such large supplies of meat? From where did he get them? _Roran asked himself as his eyes were set upon the middle aged man that moved back and forth between his cooking fires.

"Look! Another hungry soldier managed to make his way over here," spoke a male voice.

Raising an eyebrow, Roran wondered if the man was referring to him. An elbow nudge in his ribs made him grunt, his attention grabbed by a gnarled, ragged figure.

"Fhhend, ye nee' to wai' fo' ye tuhhn!"

Ignoring the comment, Roran took a few more steps forward before he was again hit on the side of his torso, this time with more power.

An old, poorly dressed beggar whose front teeth were all but missing laughed in his face as soon as Roran turned his head around.

"Ye can't go ahead like that. Ye can't-!" he said, extending his frail hands, gripping Roran's shoulders frenziedly.

"Don't bother, old man, we won't stay here for long," answered Prestov as he pulled the old man back, relieving Roran of this extra nuisance.

Sighing, Roran walked past the people carefully, trying not to bump into another citizen that had a certain grudge against him.

"Thank you, thank you for your selflessness and kindness. May your children be safe from this cursed war!" shouted a man who rapidly moved away from the crowd, carrying one of the roasted pieces of meat in his hands.

"That was the last one for now, but you don't have to wait for long! My delicacies are enough to feed you for two lifetimes as long as you can wait a little longer while the fire does its job!" shouted the merchant, extending his arms above, as if embracing the crowd. The people cheered and shuffled closer, their anticipation flaring. They whispered among themselves, throwing repeated fugitive glances at the cook, others nodding in approval or with gratitude.

Quickly covering the remaining distance, Roran pushed his way through the crowd and knocked on the large wooden table to attract the cook's attention.

"Delicious deer stew with a few chops of boar. Steamy, heartening rabbit soup… or should is be a large chunk of roasted meat from the best boar you ever tasted?" Came the loud voice of the cook who spoke without even turning around. "No? Nothing? Are your tastes too exquisite, perhaps?"

"No, I just want to-"

"Very well then," he said hastily, making a quick gesture with his bloody hand. "My assistant can offer you the necessary information about my other meals, but those are not as good as the ones I mentioned!" he continued, his voice trailing off as the cook raised his meat cleaver, bringing it down with force.

Roran looked strangely at the cook before the young boy abandoned his duties and appeared in front of him.

"Greetings, sir, how can I be of help?"

The young, raven haired boy had still a long way to reach his adolescence, but the tone of his voice and the conviction with which he spoke was impressive. Smiling, Roran placed his hands on the table and moved closer towards the boy. "I would like to know the answer to a few questions I have."

The boy's eyebrows met in a frown as he crossed his arms, eyeing Roran suspiciously. "Tell me the questions!"

Removing his arms from the table, Roran adopted a more serious tone as the boy clearly realized that he was not taken seriously.

"You're very perceptive for one so young," said Roran kindly, trying to make up for what happened earlier. "Now, when did you arrive in the city? I haven't seen you two around here."

The child sketched a small smile at the compliment. "We arrived yesterday, just when the sun was setting."

He paused for a while, scratching his arm, "And if you want to know, me and my father have come here because he said that we should offer help to those who need it."

"That is great!" replied Roran, trying not to be more inquiring than he already was. Turning his eyes from the child's persistent gaze, Roran looked around and gestured towards the supplies of meat. "You gathered an impressive amount of food, one that could feed both of you during the winter. Did you have any contribution?"

"I did!" the child replied with slight indignation." I hunted the rabbits myself, the ones that are part of the soup," he said with pride, locking his hands together before he slowly moved his left like he was pulling a string, releasing it shortly after.

"That's good to know," laughed Roran.

Despite the appearances, Roran was thinking endlessly about what kind of questions would draw out the answers he was seeking.

"I'm convinced that you had no problems on your way here, as you look like a true hunter already. These are dangerous times, and your selflessness may not be appreciated by the Empire or the thugs that lie in wait to prey on the helpless travelers."

The child's eyes widened. "The empire is-"

"Naren, check on the meat! I don't want it to become tougher and more devoid of juices than it should be!"

The cook abandoned his hatchet and turned around rapidly, eyeing Roran through narrow eyes, "What's with you and all these questions? You'll get thinner in no time if that mouth of yours continues to speak unchecked."

Roran drew his head back, slightly surprised by the cook's angry tone.

"I did not mean to-"

The cook threw him a scornful look, "But you did. What is it you want to know? You have three choices: you ask me, eat something from what I have to offer, or leave."

"How did you get here without us knowing it? You know that without protection you risk losing both your goods and your life."

The cook grunted and gripped a piece of cloth, cleaning his hands off the blood that stained them. "Heh… you come here, worrying about how I got here instead of delighting your mouth with one of my treats…"

Turning his attention away from Roran, he quickly shouted, "Naren, the cauldron! I don't want the stew to be too-"

"Got it!" replied the child, running past the two of them.

"Now, where were we…" spoke the man, his attention being divided between the crowd and Roran.

"Ah yes, about protection, eh?" he chuckled. "I did not come here alone. I and my companions, who have set camps over there," he gestured, "traveled together, passing from one location to another. Having seen the ravages of the war, we have gathered ourselves in a small group with the purpose of providing the Varden soldiers with everything they need to defend the rest of us and fight against the oppressor king."

Roran scratched his beard under the inquisitive gaze of the cook, who appeared to be looking into his very soul. "I don't understand… who supplied all that meat when the resources are greatly depleted because of the war?"

The man snickered. "Don't bother your mind with useless questions. Focus on the present and the moment at hand, for you can eat here as much as you want and without having to give anything in exchange!"

"That is very selfless of you, but what about-"

Contorting his face in anger, the cook slammed his fist on the table. "What about you cease your pestering questions and be on your way? I'm here to provide you with food, not answers, so be gone unless you decide to fill your inquiring mouth with something more nutrient," he spat as he turned around, grumbling angrily.

"You did a great job, did you know that? I will personally burn your home if I will lose my chance at a hearty meal because of you!" Shouted a man from the crowd.

"Go away, you ungrateful swine, and leave the man alone!" shouted another voice.

"Is that what a kind soul gets for giving away the food that is rightfully his so he could feed hungry mouths?"

"Ye spoiled bhaat! I knew thhaa ye be thable when I see ya!" shouted the beggar as well, courage igniting inside his old, frail body.

The people began to talk among themselves, throwing insults and shooting venomous glances at Roran in between.

"You deserve a beating for that!"

Suddenly, the shouts gave way to an eerie silence, only to be ignited shortly after, this time fiercer and more determined.

"Let's beat him!"

"Aye, I'm gonna punch that idio' in tha' face!"

Realizing that the situation was about to get messy as certain individuals moved towards him, Roran abandoned any thoughts of reasoning with the people and ran away from the hostile crowd, making his way to the outer, more impatient and docile rim of people.

"The meals are almost ready to be served, good people! Turn your attention away from that man and focus them here, on what truly matters!" shouted the cook, his powerful voice dwarfing the lesser hateful mumblings of the crowd.

Due to the cook's timely announcement, Roran could make his way towards Prestov with no incidents happening on the way. The captain awaited him beside the corner of a building, beckoning him to take shelter alongside him.

"Indeed you have a certain way of capturing the attention of the people, but this time it could very well work against you."

Lifting his head, he took a quick look at the crowd before he again focused his attention on Roran. "There's none that shows any interest in following you, luckily. Now, what did you find out?"

"Nothing of importance," he frowned. "The cook was too busy to answer my questions so he asked his son to provide me with the answers I was searching for."

Prestov chuckled,"Children can be craftier than you think and keep secrets better than a trained scout."

Roran smiled weakly, trying to not be indifferent to Prestov's amusement, "Maybe you are right, but this one was did not shine brighter than a copper coin in a chest full of silver."

The smile on his face vanished almost instantly, his features acquiring the usual serious, imposing look. "He mentioned something about the empire, but the cook cut him off in an instant.

"And you are surprised by that?" Asked Prestov, raising an eyebrow. "They are merchants, Roran, defenseless ones, so it is not surprising that they live with that innate fear of something happening to them while they travel between settlements."

Crossing his arms in a steadfast manner, Roran switched his gaze towards the gray, dirty blocks of stone that covered the soft ground underneath. The brown soil was something Roran was used to since he was a child. Being a farmer's child, he was taught everything about its nurturing properties in preparing for the healthy crops that would rise from the tiny seeds planted into it.

_Fear…impending attacks from the empire… I know them too well, _he mused, thinking about the fateful day when he and the rest of the villagers were forced to abandon their homes and crops so they could live another, uncertain day.

** Say what you want, but I liked this chapter, and I have the feeling you will like them even more when I'm done with Roran and this whole story starts to piece up together. I now have a complete puzzle that came to me without even asking for it, and I'm more than grateful for it. You'll see what I'm talking about in due time. **


	31. Armor

_Fear…impending attacks from the empire… I know them too well, _he mused, thinking about the fateful day when he and the rest of the villagers were forced to abandon their homes and crops so they could live another, uncertain day.

"You are right… their lives are more uncertain than the future of the new crops during a freezing autumn day."

Prestov looked at him strangely for a short while before opening his mouth yet again.

"What other information did you learn?"

"The other merchants that have camped around the edges of the marketplace are part of the same group as the cook. In his words, 'they are fair people that travel together to provide the Varden soldiers with everything they need to defend us against the oppressor king'," answered Roran quickly, his mind still clinging to the remnants of the past which were briefly awakened.

Prestov slowly moved his hand up, forming a fist that was placed just below his chin. "That is very noble of them, too noble during these harsh times. Last time we received this kind of help was when…" his voice slowly trailed off.

Roran said nothing, watching blankly as Prestov slowly moved his fingers up and down around his chin as he was lost in his thoughts.

"I cannot remember after all I've been through," he lamented on an edgy voice, "but I know that these occurrences were pretty rare. After all, these men risk too much for the welfare of some strangers they probably never met."

"Aye, I feel the same thing," said Roran, rising his head,"but pondering about does no good unless we find something of relevance."

Both of the men were silent until Roran voiced out his thoughts. "It would do no harm to check the other camps and see what the merchants have to say."

Prestov frowned, his eyebrows trembling slightly. "This will delay our arrival even further but… I agree with you," he sighed, walking towards Roran. "Maybe I will get myself something as well from these kind hearted merchants."

"I mean no offense, but a man of your age should have everything he needs," said Roran on a slightly amused tone as the two of them started moving towards the other camps.

Prestov laughed lightly. "Maybe that's true, but you cannot know until we see what they have to offer. An object, no matter how good it is, ages the same way we do, eventually becoming useless. You will see that when you will reach my age," he chuckled, laying a hand on Roran's shoulder.

_There will be a time when the use of these objects will not be needed anymore…_ thought Roran, placing his hand on his hammer as he imagined how it would be once the war would come to an end.

The two captains walked quickly past the boisterous atmosphere to avoid any unnecessary problems. However, their worries were unjustified as praises and gratitude filled voices rang through the crowd of people as one by one they dispersed away, carrying either a bowl of stew or a piece of meat wrapped in a piece of cloth.

"It seems that we lost the chance at a fine meal," said Prestov, nudging Roran's arm as he looked at the departing citizens.

"Maybe…" he answered, taking a long look at the merchant who was moving from place to place frantically as he tried to take care of his meals and serve the demanding citizens with the promised meals. "There is a cost for everything, and this merchant, as willing as he is to help others, must get something in exchange for the food he brought here."

Prestov smiled wryly. "Want to try and voice your concerns with the rest of them?" he laughed, gesturing at the large crowd.

Roran sketched a simple smile and said nothing, focusing his attention on the nearby merchant camp. With each step he took, he could discern with greater accuracy the mass of brown, tan and black objects that were carefully placed on a medium sized table.

With both his mind and his sight laying elsewhere, Roran jolted in surprise as a passing man clasped his shoulder in a powerful grip. " It's about time when you decided to get a proper armor for yourself!" he shouted.

Although his voice was mighty, the friendly tone immediately made Roran realize who the man was without even looking at him.

"H-Horst? What are you doing here?" he asked, choosing the first words that entered his surprised mind.

The man eyed Prestov briefly and smiled. "I should ask the same thing of you, Roran…"

he answered, analyzing him briefly. "I'm glad to see that you are still alive and strong as a mighty boar after that incident," Horst flinched, his voice laced with a small fraction of the terror which gripped the city of Feinster after Galbatorix's arrival and the massacre that took place shortly after.

"I am… something which cannot be said for the ones that charged forward to confront him… Galbatorix was no fool to come to this city. I fear that his plans are more ominous than his reputation."

Roran's eyebrows met in a slight frown as a sparkle of light reflecting off a shiny surface distracted him from the veiling mist of his thoughts.

"That is a fine craft, Horst, probably the best I have seen from you."

The man laughed and took the metal breastplate he carried on his shoulder, presenting it to the two captains.

"It doesn't belong to me. All my life I have been crafting tools and objects that are meant for farming, not fighting. My hands, although sturdy and precise, cannot give the fine shape and the rock-like resistance of a fine armor such as this one. And this is not all!" he said excitedly, his eyes widening in delight as he quickly pulled out a small, round shield from behind the armor, "I got this one as well!"

Roran shared nothing of Horst's enthusiasm as he looked at the two metal objects emptily, his eyes devoid of any positive emotion.

"Was that merchant kind enough to ask for nothing in exchange?"

Horst shifted briefly. "Yes… yes he told me that all he requires is that I make good use of these armors to protect the Varden."

"Just as I suspected," said Prestov silently so only Roran could hear.

Horst narrowed his eyes at the older captain, but quickly looked back at Roran who came closer, extending his hand.

"I'm no blacksmith but this…" he said as he ran his hand across the breastplate," …this is not made from mediocre scraps of metal."

"Oh, but that's why I accepted it," laughed Horst, patting Roran on his shoulder. "The quality of this armor is much better than I expected, and when I heard that the merchant does not want anything in exchange I began to doubt my hearing!" Then, he came closer to Roran's ear, whispering, "You should one for yourself before they are given away! And get one for Katrina as well! There's no telling when you need solid protection." He chuckled as he quickly drew back.

Roran remained silent as Horst quickly placed his armor on his shoulder, readying himself for departure. "Fortune alone can not protect you for long. Stay strong, Roran!" said Horst quickly as he turned his back towards him and moved with quick steps towards the same place they had come from.

"He's right you know," Prestov interrupted the silence, causing Roran to flinch slightly.

"As much as I like my armor, the mighty blows dented it in certain places."

"It makes for a good tale to impress the novices, at least," chuckled Roran, patting Prestov on his shoulder with amusement before he looked up ahead. Rows of people started to form as various men, citizens and soldiers alike, appeared from different parts of the city, either using the shortcuts provided by the narrow corridors between the houses or hastily making their way through the main crowd, passing by the others like enraged bulls.

The small and animated clusters of people placed themselves chaotically, despite a short man's cries that requested order and discipline. With the merchants vanishing from his sight due to the sheer number of people, Roran looked backwards at Prestov whose firm gaze and serious expression offered him the sought answer.

After making their way slowly and almost stealthy through the masses of people that seemed fascinated by the different clothing and armor displayed on the booths, Roran lifted a single hand in the air, signaling Prestov to wait while he would make his way towards the stout man with shaggy hair and clean, appealing tan leather tunic that was smiling politely to each individual that approached him.

"Not this time, Roran," Prestov added mischievously, moving towards the booth where the heavy armor sparkled with dazzling beauty under the sun's warm tough. A smile stretched across Roran's face. At least this unpleasant interrogation would soon come to an end, he would fulfill his mission and return to Katrina's tender arms and warm embrace.

Gulping emptily, he advanced steadfastly through the outer edges of the crowd, trying his best to ignore the people's insults and threats. The first thing he noticed when he reached the wide booth was the pungent smell of cured leather mixed with dust. Contrary to his first impression, another merchant with short hair and trimmed beard appeared besides the one he already noticed. He was probably there to deal with the big number of requests coming from the greedy men who nodded wholeheartedly and with joy after receiving their new tunics and leggings. Ravenous like wolves, they were, their hands fixing on the equipment like claws, never wanting to let it go.

Suddenly, a powerful force coalesced with his left arm, the impact almost sending him tumbling on the cobblestone road.

"Bugger off, pipsqueak," a tall, muscled man shouted with revulsion, making a rude gesture at him before his face lightened in delight as his gaze switched towards the merchant who placed a friendly hand on his shoulder while his other arm hovered across his goods, excitedly showing the man his stock.

Roran's fists tightened, his teeth gritted against one another, but his rational side triumphed in the end. Approaching the first merchant from the side, where no man dwelled, he greeted him curtly.

"Relax, my friend, everyone will wear my fine armor," he said on a honey laced voice, kindness forcefully trying to cover his deep voice.

"You will have to talk to Zilan." The man whistled loudly in the direction of the several wagons covered with cloth placed right behind the booth. Presumably, they were filled with various goods, ranging from tunics to armor, to equip as many people as possible. Roran found it strange that these people could carry so many goods, but what really baffled him was the source of their supplies. However, he didn't have time to think, as a young fellow with brown hair, brown eyes and a merry look on his face appeared before him, his hand extended for a greeting that failed to come from Roran.

"Quite the impatient one, are you?" he asked, beckoning Roran to follow him. "There are many like you, soldiers that are in a hurry yet they feel embarrassed about the ragged clothing, torn leggings and dented, rusty armor they receive from the barracks."

Roran couldn't help but accept the truth in his words. Because of the lack of resources, many of the new recruits were required to wear obsolete equipment and worn out swords that could put their lives at peril. That was the cost of this campaign, and the price was paid in blood and sacrifices.

"This is not fair…" Zilan complained on a low voice, trudging his feet towards the caravan which was only a few feet away. "These brave souls fight an almost invincible force with unfaltering courage, yet they don't look better than beggars due to their filthy and torn clothes and armor made of scrap metal.

Roran said nothing, staring blankly at a wagon in front of him. Although this young lad had a point, an odd and eerie feeling slowly crept inside him, yet his musings were quickly interrupted by the same saddened voice.

"We're nothing but merchants, yet…" Zilan interrupted and grabbed the cloth that covered the goods, removing it with force.

"We will do justice to these soldiers, and even if our travels were tedious and the creation of these goods has been significant, I will ensure that every soldier will walk tall among the Varden, proud of his rank and clothing."

Roran tried to say something, but the determination of this young man could not be swayed away that easily by some mere words. His loud voice immediately interrupted Roran.

"You will no longer be looked down upon, brave citizen, and when the war is over, you will tell stories of how the armor of some simple merchants saved your life."

"Maybe, but what I want to know…"

"Behold the results of the hard working people who ask for nothing in return," Zilan interrupted, his eyes scanning the tunics and leggings with great delight.

Roran gasped, impressed by the sheer numbers of tunics and leggings residing in this wagon. The pleasant smell of tanned leather entered his nostrils, and without second thoughts, his hand moved across a tunic, its soft yet resilient fabric providing an excellent body cover. Although their coloring was the same, a monotonous tan complemented by the black leggings, the fine craftsmanship was enough to make everyone overlook the little defects, if there was any.

"They are… that's impressive," Roran stuttered, trying to come up with a plan to drain some answers out of this man.

"They are yours!" Zilan exclaimed joyfully, picking a tunic and a pair of leggings with speed. "Put them to good use, brave citizen."

Roran hesitated for a moment, much to Zilan's displeasure, who was getting tired of holding the goods right before his nose.

"Before accepting your generous offer, I need to know…"

"What else we have?" Zilan cut in, smiling widely. "Although I'm pretty sure I picked the right size for you…"

Carefully, he placed the goods back in the wagon and circled it several times, his eyes moving from one tunic to another while his hands erratically grabbed something, only to let it slip away the next moment.

"You are very kind, but I don't think I would like—"

"What do you think about this one?" Zilan asked politely, interrupting Roran yet again. With a firm shake of his head, he obliterated the young man's mirth, whose face lost its previous mirth.

"But there has to be something you want!" Subtle, concealed desperation was being present in his loud voice. Roran was familiar with it, he had heard it before, and it seemed that Zilan's persuasive attitude had its own holes and vulnerabilities.

"What about leggings?" he said, offering him a clean pair of tanned leather leggings. Roran again shook his head. Disappointed, almost offended by his actions, Zilan placed the leggings back where they belonged and scuffed his head after running both of his hands through his short greasy hair.

"Then why have you wasted my time, stranger?" he almost shouted, his patience all but gone by now. Roran was instantly baffled by his attitude, mainly because he did nothing to wrong the man. A pat on his back caused him to shudder and twist around with inhuman speed. His reaction almost knocked down the merchant who summoned Zilan, only that he was now looking at him with narrow eyes and a forced smile.

"Perhaps you would like some armor?" said the man in a hurried voice as he revealed a pristine breastplate.

"This wonderful piece of armor was crafted by one of the most renowned blacksmiths in the region. Due to the quality of the metal and the expertise of his craft, it's said that these armors are tougher than dragon scales!" he continued enthusiastically, quickly brushing the breastplate with his other hand. "It's said that those who are privileged to wear these high quality armors rush into battle and come back with their skin unscathed. Here, try it!" he said quickly as he moved forward, trying to fit the breastplate onto Roran.

Roran backed away from the persistent merchant, but suddenly, he hit something.

"You really should put it on," Zilan said, refusing to move out of his way. Feeling cornered by these two very persistent merchants, Roran tried to reason with them.

"I don't need any armor. I have my own, and other soldiers might have a better use for it." Even he was impressed by the calm he displayed in his words, when his mind was about to turn into a raging volcano.

"But we have plenty of them," the merchant said on a very convincing and calm tone, hitting the breastplate with his fist.

"It would be a shame to be put at risk because of a lesser armor."

"Why are you insisting so much?" he asked dryly.

"Because we care about you," Zilan responded without second thoughts. "There are many people too ashamed to admit they need help."

Roran couldn't help but feel that something strange was going on, and the wily merchants had other intentions than just distributing their goods freely. Still, intuition alone was not enough to unveil this mystery, and until proven otherwise, these merchants were just people willing to help the Varden at their own accord.

"I can take care of myself," Roran responded before he broke into a sprint, sidestepping left to avoid the crowd which was probably staring at him like he was a freak of nature.

"May swords evade you," the merchant shouted from behind. In a way, Roran felt sorry for doubting them, but his timely reactions and intuition often saved him from trouble.

**At first, both "Food" and "Armor" chapters were supposed to be a single chapter named "Food and Armor," but due to the amounts of information present in each of them, I decided to split them. So, Roran and Prestov visited the other merchants, and there are quite some similarities. What are those merchants doing here? Are they really doing what they claim? While the next chapter will not answer these questions, it will lead the way towards the conclusion of the Roran chapters. **


	32. A Task for Two Captains

**Time for some replies**

**Weee- While I don't mind negative criticism, I would appreciate it if you mention your quirk with my story instead of just telling me I'm bad. I see you figured it out yourself, and I'm glad you did. I tried to offer a more different story, one which is not predictable and can surprise the reader.**

**Eragonnerd- Thank you very much for your support. So far, your comments mattered a lot to me. **

**Anonymous- Why, thank you! I hope I'll be a professional author one day, but for now, I'm just writing to improve and to see how good I'm at character development(which is probably one of my weakest points) and story telling. The plot is not a problem, as I have most of it in my mind and ready to use.**

**Undbitr- We'll get Eragon chapters soon enough. These chapters, while not very exciting, are very important for the future of the Varden. You will see what I mean as the story progresses. **

**Restrained Freedom- That was the point of the Roran chapters. I surprised myself too! I did want to build up enough suspense, but the second batch of merchants came to me while I was thinking about what task to give Roran and Prestov.**

Roran's stride slowly subsided as he distanced himself from the crowd of people. Warily, he looked behind to see if there was someone who followed him, namely the merchants, but such people were simple and predictable. Too greedy to even care about what happened, the people were only focused on obtaining what they wanted, and there were plenty of them who were already holding their newly acquired goods in hands, laughing and smiling at each other, probably congratulating themselves for their quick thinking.

A faint whisper came from his right, but Roran paid no attention to it as he made his way towards the barracks. The whisper of his name became louder, forcing him to turn around. Hidden behind a building, Prestov signaled Roran to join him. A bit confused because of his subtlety, Roran obeyed without further questions.

"The merchants scared you away?" he chuckled, patting Roran on the back in a friendly manner. Roran returned a smile, but he wasn't quite as lighthearted as Prestov. Feeling his tension, he continued on a more serious tone, "Quite peculiar, those merchants. There's something about them, yet I can't put my finger on it."

Roran merely nodded, wishing Prestov to speak before he would relate his findings. After coughing to adjust his voice, his companion looked at the merchants, his eyes narrowed.

"Aran, the heavy armor merchant that spoke to me seemed quite in a rush to distribute his goods to the multitude of soldiers that were visiting him, and assigned someone else to do that while he would talk to me. After I told him about my rank, his face lightened and offered me armor, but…" Prestov suddenly paused, looking downwards for a moment.

"My decline has not been taken lightly, and he completely evaded any question that wouldn't relate with the armor or their goods. I told him that I already have armor and that his goods may help the others, but he blatantly refused to accept it."

Thoughts of his recent encounter rolled back in Roran's mind, varying from the persistent merchant who almost put the breastplate onto him to the disappointed, almost angry young man that only wanted the best for everyone.

"Aye, the same happened to me…"Roran's voice trailed off, his inner dissension stopping him from continuing.

"Maybe we're over thinking this," Prestov intervened. "Maybe this war twisted us so much that accepting good in our lives is nothing less than impossible."

"It is possible, yet-," Roran looked towards the crowd of people and the agitated merchants who frantically moved around to unload more equipment from the caravan, "Those people are just too good."

"Put your mind at rest, Roran," Prestov said, nudging him in the arm hard enough to snap him from his trance, "You are a warrior, not a scholar."

Roran nodded, pleasing Prestov with his ability to overlook certain details until the most important task would be accomplished. What mattered was to fulfill the mission they were originally assigned for.

"We don't want to be late. Not when our superiors tend to lack patience."

With a brisk pace, the two captains made their way through the boisterous crowd, evading soldiers and citizens like it was some sort of training exercise. The arrival of these merchants completely changed Feinster, morphing its dullness into vividness and lifting the pressing veil of sorrow from people, replacing it with cheers and happiness. To Roran, it seemed extraordinary, for only victories could bring such mirth among the Varden.

Although it was named barracks, the structure which was supposed to house the Varden's military force was a residence belonging to a noble who was unfortunate enough to perish in the battle for this city. Wide enough to offer enough space for the troops and lavish on the exterior, with beautiful meandering forms and balconies, the barracks were an oxymoron for each soldier that associated this term with the crude and classic structure designed for only one purpose: battle training.

Roran smiled wryly as his eyes met the conspicuous and somewhat weathered structure. His opinion of nobles was not a positive one, and in conjunction with its purpose, the result was quite an abomination. Most of the time, soldiers didn't like nobles and vice versa.

Prestov increased his pace slightly while Roran reluctantly advanced towards the entrance of the makeshift barracks, where an armor clad and medium height man seemed to await their arrival. His rough, shoulder length hair was dark as midnight, and his insightful mud brown eyes were enough to give him an imposing yet stoic appearance. A scar notched his beardless cheek, and Roran thought that it was the result of a reckless training or a conflict which took a wrong turn.

"Prestov," he began on a displeased voice. "I expected more from a disciplined captain such as you." Prestov didn't seem bothered by their little insubordination, yet Roran could feel that he was equally confused about this man, and his purpose, before anything.

With an inquiring gaze, Roran looked at the man in front of him, then at Prestov. He couldn't help but to feel a vague sensation of uncertainty crawling across his spine. Who was this man, and why was he waiting for them? Prestov's indications pointed otherwise, yet he mentioned nothing of a possible change of plans.

Before he could muse about the peculiar character of this situation, Roran noticed that patience was not an attribute firmly embedded among this man's principle, his thick eyebrows that almost contorted into a frown denoting his inner displeasure.

"Roran Stronghammer," he said loudly, almost arrogantly, "I heard much about you. Quite an impressive fellow you are."

Roran smiled inwardly and replied. "I wish I could say the same, but my information differs from what reality has to offer."

"You were supposed to meet with the council," the man cut in, pacing around with his hands tied at his back, his gaze never leaving the two captains. "As you can see, they can't receive you at this moment, so they have appointed me, the council representative, to instruct you further."

"We didn't…" the man suddenly fixed his eyes on Prestov, his almost petrifying gaze making him feel slightly uneasy, "know…" Prestov finished, his voice fluctuating with meandering waves of uncertainty.

"All there is to know is that the council has more important problems to deal with, and the likes of you shall not disturb them or Nasuada."

"That's not what we have been told," Roran cut in, trying to obtain some answers. "Moments ago, the existence of a council representative was foreign to me and Prestov."

The armored man chuckled, scratching his chin lightly. "You are a soldier. Acting is what you do, not questioning." A short sigh escaped him. "Politics and warriors are like water and oil anyway."

His arrogant attitude infuriated Roran slightly, but he did a good job overall by keeping a cool attitude. Most of their superiors were no different, and this man made no exception. Suddenly, he stopped, the armor resonating with a clang as metal plates rubbed against one another.

"A caravan has departed from Melian with only a few brave peasants to defend the merchants that transport various goods that may serve the Varden. At this moment, they should have already passed the Jiet river by crossing one of its bridges situated at the conjunction…"

He continued to list a series of geographical markings on a map he pulled from his belt, each of them following the course of said caravan. With a limited knowledge regarding map reading, Roran could only pretend that he was following the man's indication with extra concentration while Prestov's gestures and questions swayed his attention towards him.

"…all you have to do is meet with a contingent of foot troops where we established and protect the caravan. Is that clear?"

Both of the captains nodded curtly, their obedience summoning a smile on the man's face. "Good, then you will have no problems departing at this very moment. You are already late, and should the caravan suffer any damage, the punishment shall be appropriate for those who failed to fulfill this menial task."

"It will be done," Prestov said, bidding him farewell. Although unwilling to respect a soldier's code with this arrogant fool, Roran did the same and quickly followed Prestov, wishing nothing more than to fulfill his mission and return to Katrina after such stressful day.

No words were exchange between him and Prestov while they hurriedly made their way through Feinster's inner parts, using whatever shortcuts available to make up for the loss of time which now weighed heavily upon both of them.

"Council representative?" Prestov laughed with interruptions due to panting. "What are next, personal servants for each commander?"

"That is a possibility," Roran chuckled, patting his hammer. He would never hesitate using it, although he could only hope that he wouldn't have to.

After exiting through the main gate, at Prestov's indication, the two of them turned left, trading the main road with a small, dusty, fit for peasants path used by traders to access the nearby forest. The calm atmosphere, the caressing breeze and the clear blue sky helped Roran reminisce the reason of his struggle, the purpose of this bloodshed and the source of his vigor in battles: Katrina.

Even now, he could picture her perfect body in their bed, her enticing forms casting their suave fetters of lust on his mind. He could not resist them. He did not want to. With soft moves, his hand would caress her silky hair that rippled like a copper waterfall. His lips would gently touch her cheek, sliding towards her neck…

"Beautiful day eh?" Prestov's voice immediately erased the image of the perfect being formed in his mind, returning him to the colorless and dull reality in an instant.

Shuddering slightly because of the power of his voice, Roran responded with slight displeasure, "Yes it is."

"Thinking about your wife?"

Roran looked towards the white, puffy clouds that adorned the sky, their shapes slowly molding into even more bizarre forms. "Yes… she is at home right now, and she's most likely preparing a fine meal for my return," chuckled Roran, the smell of his morning meal still fresh into his memory.

"My wife is probably doing the same," he said, then released a light laughter, "That, and watching over my boys that cause all sorts of trouble. I always remember about my younger self when I watch them fighting with blunt sticks like two, soon-to-become-warriors."

Roran sighed," Who knows? Maybe the war will be over until they reach the proper age and join our forces."

Prestov laughed again, patting Roran's shoulder with assurance. "I know, I know… but I cannot do anything about their preferences, you know!" he said, pausing for a short while.

"I guess they will both become blacksmiths since they have a fascination regarding sharp objects."

Looking at Roran, he quickly asked," What about your child?"

"I don't know…" he paused, his thoughts drifting towards Katrina and their unborn baby.

"If it is a boy, he will continue my family's tradition and become a farmer. With girls, it is harder." A smile stretched across Roran's face, the pleasant thoughts filling him with happiness. No matter the cruelty of this war, Katrina was the gentle wave of love that kept him floating, lifting his wrecked and troubled mind to heights he would not dream to access alone.

"It always is," Prestov laughed, nudging him in the arm.

They continued this pleasant discussion for a while, their worries and concerns about the war all but gone. Even if a soldier's life was paved with peril, such moments were imperative for uplifting their morale. Although Roran longed for his intimate moments spent with Katrina, words always helped him in his struggle, and Prestov understood him quite well.

Shortly after, the road began meandering through the thin fringe of the forest, where only a handful of trees escaped the axe of the lumberjacks. Confident in the instructions he had received, Prestov retained his mirth and even tried to explain Roran how the map of that council representative worked, but without much success.

Steadily, retaining a fast pace, they penetrated the inner parts of the forest, where the density of the trees, the cluster of plants and the abundance of ferns obscured the path as well as irritating Roran while he tried to climb a small protuberance that resembled a tiny hill.

"Roran, look!" Prestov yelled out of a sudden. With a curious gaze, he tried to locate what Prestov has suggested, but the trees simply blocked his vision.

"Come down here," he said while his hand pointed at a large boulder on which a shard leaned casually. "That must be the guide mark that man talked about."

"So that means we're close?" Roran asked with mild enthusiasm. Although they were supposed to locate a lumberjack cottage where the soldiers would meet up with them, he felt slightly irritated that instead, they were scouting for land marks and rocks.

"See for yourself," Prestov chuckled, taking the lead. When Roran finally reached him, everything began to make sense. Behind this rock, a clearing opened ahead. Which was the best place to build a cottage in the middle of the forest?

With their objective in sight, Prestov beckoned him to break into a sprint, which Roran did without question. Such a late arrival would tarnish the image the soldiers would depict when they would meet, but trudging in such moment was not an option.

However, instead of loud discussions and laughs, an eerie silence permeated the area around the small, wooden hut. Prestov threw Roran a confused look and he shrugged. Letting out a sigh, Prestov started to move towards the door. A screech of a chair, wood sliding across a rough surface, could be heard from the inside, and in the next moment, a young man walked out of the cottage, his expression more serious than that of a battle hardened warrior.

"You delayed long enough," he said shortly.

** The Roran chapters are finally beginning to reveal more and more about what is going on. Is it possible that the merchants were only a distraction while the important part of Roran's task was to meet with the Council Representative and fulfill his assignment? More so, who exactly is this man? Both Roran and Prestov never heard of him before. **


	33. A Mug Stained with Blood

Roran and Prestov quickly looked at each other. Prestov simply lifted his shoulders, empathizing the fact that he walked the same uncharted grounds as Roran did. Without asking any question, Roran made a motion with his hand and took a step back, allowing Prestov to be the first to enter the cottage.

"Yaaa dis be tha' men me was speakin' 'bout, ch'wmen! Cap'tans, an' stron' ones too!" came a loud shout which made Roran shudder in surprise as soon as he found himself inside.

Mistaking the heartening shout for something else, Roran took a quick look around. The cheerful words that shook the cabin not a moment ago couldn't inspire anyone but those who were present as crewmen this man was speaking about were nowhere to be found. The cottage, which was large enough to house a dozen soldiers was only occupied by three men: the young soldier who greeted them in his own, strange way, and a middle aged, black-bearded man who was comfortably leaning into an old chair, mug in hand. The last person who completed the trio was a warrior not much older than Roran. However, what stood out in this particular man was the fine polished armor he wore. Every piece of it –from the shining breastplate to the protective greaves that covered his calves- was very similar to those given by the merchants in Feinster.

"Maybe you should think about their leading skills instead of staring at their muscles," said the young soldier, motioning for the two captains to come closer.

"Something is amiss, Prestov. I've walked through the Varden's ranks countless times, ate and drank with the men, led them into battles… and I know when I'm seeing a familiar figure, but these men… this is my first time to catch a glimpse of them," whispered Roran, leaning close enough to Prestov to pass on the message while being subtle enough to avoid any suspicions.

"Put your suspicions aside and keep your thoughts to yourself, or you'll find yourself in the midst of a battle of words you cannot win."  
Roran remained silent. Unlike him, Prestov easily managed to conceal his uneasiness. Yet, it was not hard to tell that the man's mind was burdened with various thoughts. His eyes – which agilely moved from place to place – betrayed him.

Suddenly, the silence was broken. With a swift flick of his hand, the short bearded man slammed his mug into the arm of his chair.  
"Ehey, ey! Don' be speakin' in silent wo'ods ove theh like two cutthoughs who is plottin' somethin'. Come hee and speak out wha' you haa' ta say on loud voice!"  
The aged wood split in two uneven pieces under the massive force of the hit. Splinters flew in the air, landing on the man's bulged belly and adding on the stained, ragged cloth that covered his body from neck to waist.

"Control yourself, Mug," intervened the one who warmly welcomed the two captains inside the hospitable cottage.  
Grunting disapprovingly, Mug leaned back on his chair, his angry gaze never leaving the prized possession he carried in his right hand.

"And you two, just don't sit right there like two worthless peasants on the lookout of other respectable citizens that would take pity on you and lend a few coins."

"I thought we were to depart as soon as we arrived here," Roran cut in.  
To be on the roads again without even resting his legs was not a pleasing prospect, but staying in the presence of these fine subordinates was even worse, something which Roran acknowledged without a doubt.

"You're right," the same man responded, raising his head. "I only thought that a short pause to rest your legs and a chance to get to know the rest of the team would be what you desired."

Matching his arrogant stare, Roran mockingly frowned his eyebrows in denial.

The man's lip twitched nervously. "We've agreed then," he said, motioning for his companions to stand up. Taking his eyes off Roran, the man went to a small table with several belongings on it and picked only a small pouch which he squeezed in his hand.

Roran said nothing and waited for the trio to walk past the front door. The burly man called Mug went first, followed by his armored companion whose metal plates clanged annoyingly as his body moved.  
The last to exit the wooden cabin was the person which Roran despised the most and, as luck would have it, he stopped dead in his tracks right at the door.

"You look at us with spite, but know that the feeling is mutual. I wouldn't like to know more details about a lowly commander." He smiled. "You can only imagine what I felt when your inferior mind commanded that filthy mouth of yours to order us to depart with the same arrogance as that filthy Galbatorix."  
And he walked past by, bumping intentionally into Roran's shoulder while throwing him a look of pity as if apologizing for the discomfort he caused.

With great effort Roran managed to subdue the instant rage that overcame his being. Like the rapids of a waterfall, the fire of rage raced through his mind, his limbs, his fists… urging him to take action.

But he took none.

There were others that would be the victims of his rage, and Roran knew better than to stir unnecessary trouble. This man was no better than any soldier who willingly obeyed the orders of Galbatorix, but he was still on the Varden's side. Flaws or no flaws, he was an ally.  
Flexing his fingers a little, Roran realized how close he was to beat that man senseless.

_Is this war altering my personality to such extent? I was not like this before, not so eager to impart judgment upon others when hearing the acrid words of mockery, yet now I stood like a savage beast ready to rip open its prey_, mused Roran while exercising his aching fingers.

"Let us follow them and see this mission fulfilled."  
Patting Roran's shoulder reassuringly, Prestov took the lead with Roran following closely.

The two groups took on the path that stretched all the way from the wooden cottage up to the surrounding forest, where the shadow and the vegetation appeared to swallow it.  
Other than the chirping of the sky dwellers who busily saw to their own needs, only the sound of boots touching the dry soil disturbed the permeating silence.

Being on unfriendly terms since the beginning, the men preferred to walk besides those who they knew while taking the proper distance from the others. That seemed to work until the burly man broke from his group and deliberately remained behind, waiting for Roran and Prestov to catch up with him.

Roran eyed the man warily, then turned his eyes towards Prestov. Serious as always, the aged captain kept his eyes fixed on the path ahead without allowing any disturbances to distract him. It was an obvious hint that he wasn't in the necessary disposition to speak, and Roran didn't press his luck.  
Looking yet again towards Mug –whose ugly features were accentuated by a wide, yet stupid grin—Roran paid no attention to him and continued walking.  
That worked well, until Mug placed his large arm around his neck, pulling him closer to his body like a friend would with a dear comrade.

"Don' be tha' upset fo' wha' happen't, capt'n," he said in his usual voice which closely resembled that of an honorable man drenched in alcohol. " I can lift ya spi'its, o' betta, my mug can," he said, bringing the mug closer to Roran's face.  
"If it is was filled, tha' is."

The man's clothing reeked of sweat mixed with other pungent odor. The cloth, however, did little in protecting his skin from the same treatment it was put under. On the surface of the man's skin, a layer of dirt mixed itself with the moisture of the sweat, forming a gross and unbearable smelly substance that was sticking to whatever it came in contact with.  
That was enough of a reason for Roran to struggle and break free of the man's grip in such way that it wouldn't require the use of violence.

"Is that why you are carrying that mug with you?" He asked in a desperate attempt to distract the man.

"Naa, dat not tha' 'eason fo' why I ca'y dis mug. It a long story."

Finally, after what seemed hours of smelly torture, the grip faltered. Taking this long awaited opportunity, Roran pulled away from Mug and breathed in the fresh air. His right side bore a part of Mug's filth, but that was not as bad as it would have been if his face suffered the same treatment.

"I'll tell you what happened."

The voice that suddenly cut in was one which Roran wished he would never hear again. Still, the words were spoken in the absence of hatred, and Roran was not one who wouldn't be reasonable – even with those who didn't deserve it.

"I would like to hear what you have to say," replied Roran, masking any traces of contempt in his voice.

Like before, the man beckoned for him to join and stand beside him.

"I would have preferred not to waste my time with silly history lessons, but you gained Mug's favor, something which is not earned quite easily..."

"I only-" Roran began.

"Be silent and listen to what I have to say. And most of all, don't interrupt me," the man intervened.

Roran nodded.

"Hmpff," he sighed.

Roran glanced at the man with the corner of his eye. He seemed not to be so sure of himself now when his mind was forced to dig up and unveil the remnants of the past. He couldn't be fully trusted – Roran knew it from their very first meeting—and his story could be a bottomless abyss of well woven lies where not even a drop of truth resided, similar to Mug's empty mug…

"To begin with, Mug's story is far from being similar to that of any other man," he said, looking over his shoulder. "The man wasn't always like this, you know, but a certain incident forced the change upon him as the weather does upon the crops."

A shiver ran down Roran's spine, and it was not the melancholic voice of this man that made him feel uneasy. The fault resided in his words, and that brief mention of crops.  
_He must have been informed of my past,_ thought Roran. A cloud of uncertainty loomed over him, threatening to disrupt his very being with bangs of misfortune and a downpour of worries.  
_Who is this man_? Roran asked himself. It was the same question that bothered him during their first acquaintance, where the man's knowledge seemed to brave the same unknown fields as Roran's did.  
_Was he deceiving me when he questioned my position as a captain?_ Roran asked himself again. Lost in his musings, he almost stumbled over when a bump in the ground threatened to unite his body with the dried soil.  
With two large steps, he managed to regain his balance and prevent an embarrassing moment from happening.

"Cae'ful de'e, capt'n," Mug said, gripping his now steady body with his brutish arms.

Throwing him a reassuring look to empathize the fact that he was alright, Roran opened his mouth to speak.  
"I apologize… my mind was focused on the past."

His shallow excuse caused the two men to chuckle loudly, but their amusement was short lived as the arrogant man opened his mouth, eager to continue what he left unfinished.  
"You should be grateful that you don't have to burden your mind and tire your mouth with this, Mug."  
Mug grunted in disapproval. Displease was visible on his face, and any man with a clear mind would flee from him. However, he took no other actions except passing his fingers through his messy beard.

"Which is unfortunate," the man whispered , leaning over to Roran's ear. "Even the squeals of a pig are easier to understand than the tortured words spoken by that man."

Roran was silent. Although it was said that talking is the food that nurtures the mind during long travels, Roran preferred that he would be alone, with only the sounds of nature reaching his ears. If he would not travel in the presence of a more deserving company, silence would put his mind at east.

"It all happened during a night, long before the world knew the name of Eragon and Saphira."  
"We were simple men back then, working only to feed ourselves and keep us sheltered. We didn't know each other, of course, until a certain incident that made that happen …"

* * *

Roar of thunders and bold flashes of lightning threatened to part the sky into pieces while the heavy clouds unleashed their burden upon the land with unmatched ferocity. It was if a beast was set loose from the celestial prison of puffy vapors that contained it, releasing its rage and fury upon those bounded to the earth realm.

Everyone took shelter in the confines of their own homes, save for a handful of men that were locked in two battles at once: a battle of will and the battle against the elements.

"Ge' tha' crate be moving faster, ye scoundrel! I ain't no wait for tha' ship be sinking and crates go with it to bottom water!"

"I'm trying-"came an audible complain that shortly turned into a cry of panic. There was something odd about the rain, like misfortune itself was present in the drops of cold water which splashed with such force on the unprotected humans to the point it hurt.  
A misplaced step, the endless rocking of the ship which was at the mercy of the raging waters, or a forgotten object which previously seemed insignificant… the causes were many, but they eventually led to the same outcome. A single outcome that preceded the string of events which were about to happen next.

It all happened during the blink of an eye. Due to an unknown cause, the one who gave voice to his tumultuous feelings slipped on the water-drenched wood. The stuffed crate he was carrying no longer bore the same value of an ordinary item. After it fell on top of his chest, with the sharp edge piercing his belly, it acquired a completely new significance.

"ARGHHH!"  
The muffled scream of the man was barely audible amidst the savage pouring of the rain. As it had not caused enough damage already, the crate also drew the breath out of his lungs, sealing his fate in an instant.

"Tha' crate must was last one. With me come to house an' be drinkin' tha coin in our pocket we was got for tha job!"

His mighty shout summoned the attention of two other men. Together with the one that was handing out the orders, they left the unsteady wooden boards of the ship, replacing them with the stone pavement of the dark alleys of the city once their feet touched the hard stone and carried them into the darkness.

The three who just left – four with the one who was left lifeless on the deck—however, were not the only souls abroad. Deep in the bowels of the ship, a single man was enjoying his evening meal. He was safely protected from the wrath of the elements and the darkness of the night, a luxury not afforded by the unlucky souls that braved the streets in search for shelter and food. Although it was not much, the small cabin he took residence in ever since he accepted to work as a crewman on the ship fulfilled the needs any other house could.

"What a deal…" he mumbled in between his breaths, his mouth greedily munching on the hunk of bread and the tough piece of meat he had in his hands. "Food is definitely better than drink, mhm, mhm…"

The man continued to feast on the scarce variety of food which made up his meal, undisturbed even by the movements of the ship which could throw any lesser experienced citizen off balance.  
"Mhmm, mhmmm," he hummed. The meat was almost as hard as a wooden stick, but that didn't stop him from chewing it with a vengeance.

"Hmh?" the man mumbled again. He lazily turned his head, taking a peek over his shoulder with the corner of his eye. Even with the relentless pounding of the rain, the wooden boards were screeching harder than usual – he knew it after he worked so long on this ship to the point where he favored the sea and the wooden cabins more than the stable ground the city was build upon.

"Hmm!"  
Whatever the cause was, it didn't matter. Turning his attention to the food when another threatening thunder reverberated through the air, the man prepared to gobble up the remains of his meal.

BANG! The old door collapsed in an instant. The weak hinges posed little resistance against the great force that slammed against it, sending the door skidding across the floor.  
The breaking sound was so loud and sudden that the man didn't even have time to turn around. Instead, his body jolted violently, an action which caused both the chair and his body to fall and meet the dirty wooden boards.

"Take everything you find," said one of them.  
His henchmen immediately obeyed, their thumping steps causing the wooden boards to screech in annoyance.

Having trouble swallowing the food that was blocking his ability to speak, the crewman watched incredulously as his cabin was ransacked by a couple of ragged clothed bandits.

"Ye lookin' at what, ye fat fish-faced ugliness?" one of them teased as he took a hearty bite of the hunk of bread while stuffing the meat in his mouth.

"He's a soldier!" another one spoke on an edgy voice. "Armor and weapon, look!"

"Get those too," the one in command spoke as he watched the scene from the doorstep. "He won't need them anymore."

Transfixed by what was going on, the crewman could only watch silently how these thieves were taking all his possessions. Even worse, it all happened in front of his eyes, and he was helpless, unable to do anything…not even swallowing his food…

"I'll take ye bread, ye fish," the one near him said. "And the plate, if ye don' mind."

The crewman was about to gag in revulsion when a shrilling cry of pain erupted from one of the three men. Looking around the room in disbelief, the crewman's eyes widened when he saw Mug beating the leader of these bandits senseless, using his mug as a weapon. The others jumped to his aid, but they proved to be nothing more than mere nuisances as the Mug hit here and there, in the face and everywhere, depending on the wielding expertise of its owner. The bandits fell like helpless insects under the savage blows of the brutal mug which completely humiliated them, leaving the bandits in the same state as it would leave a man who would drink from its content.

The situation seemed to turn for the better until more steps could be heard coming down from the upper deck. Soon, several new bandits flooded the room, subduing the brave mug fighter and his companion by making use of their sharp, menacing blades.

Acknowledging total defeat, the two crewmen were laid on the ground, then beaten before all their possessions were taken from them. All, except the mug.

"… and that would be about it. Both of them told me the same story, obviously, as I couldn't come up with that kind of my story on my own," the man laughed, patting Mug's back.  
The burly man grunted, lifting the mug into the air as if celebrating something.

"I guess fate simply doesn't favor us anymore, as if Galbatorix himself twisted it to his will," said Roran.

The man turned his head towards Roran and sketched a forced smile. "I cannot disagree with you on that matter," he said. "Few of us could live as we did before the usurper king proclaimed his dominance over the land."

Roran nodded, looking behind when the man's gaze lingered elsewhere. Prestov was walking slightly behind the group, either too tired or uninterested of the conversations held by the main group.

"You still didn't tell me how that unfortunate event left its mark on your companions," added Roran all of a sudden with the purpose of keeping the conversation going. It wasn't pleasant, but he saw the necessity in increasing the trust between him and these men. He was a commander, after all, and trust was one of the key elements of successfully leading a group of subordinates.

"Eager to know more, are you?" he teased with a slightly mocking voice. " Hmm, yes, I will tell you, but I'll keep it short."

"After that incident, the two of them were thrown off that ship, discarded like mere beggars. The captain wanted it this way, and his decision was not contested by anyone. 'Useless vermin that can't even stand against common bandits are no different than a dead fish except in smell' he said."

"Working on the ship was all these men knew, and that blow alone was harder than any other…."

The man looked towards Mug, "His mug might have been useful against a couple of bandits, but its true purpose is wash away the man's shame and dark thoughts with the drinks it is being filled with. Be it day or night, that mug never leaves his side"  
Turning his attention to the armored man, he continued," There's a saying that you can never be too cautious, and this man truly acknowledged… no," he paused, "he devoted himself to the power of those words."

"What does that mean?" asked Roran, retaining a certain calm in his voice.

"What can that mean?" he questioned, looking at Roran briefly before a large smile stretched across his face. "I thought you were sharper than that, captain." Then, as a good friend would, he laid a hand on Roran's shoulder and continued. "It means that steel replaced the fabric of his usual clothes."

"That's what any soldier does when it values its life," Roran sighed.

The man burst into a short laughter. "Yes, my perceptive friend, but not all the soldiers sleep or tend to whatever work they have to do while clad in armor."

Roran tried his best not to follow the man's example and laugh as he did earlier. Instead, he suppressed his urge to laugh, his face acquiring a more pronounced nuance of red in the process.  
"That must be uncomfortable."

"Oh, it is," the man replied. "But don't speak with him about that. If Mug and I couldn't, then no one could convince him otherwise."

The armored man suddenly stopped moving as his usual brisk pace came to a halt. Roran looked at him strangely. Ever since he met up with the group, this man didn't utter a single word. No matter what happened, his eyes were always pointed towards the ground, like his mind was lost in an endless labyrinth and no light to guide him out.

Roran's fixed stare shifted abruptly when the man he spoke with earlier turned his eyes towards him. Not wanting to be disrespectful, Roran brushed off any of the questions that nagged at his mind like pestering insects.

"He may not speak words, but he certainly hears them."

"I can see that," Roran remarked, looking over his shoulder. The armored man picked up his pace again, walking slightly behind Prestov.

"Is there a name I can call you by? I realized that-"

"MUG!" a shrilling voice suddenly called.

Alerted by the unknown voice, Roran prepared to turn around. He could not see behind – nor had he the time to do that – as the burly man swung his massive arm in an instant, smashing his mug into Roran's face. A slight crunch preceded the intense pain that followed when the fragile bones which held Roran's jaw in place snapped. Darkness mixed with strange lights flashed before his eyes, his mind unable to comprehend what happened. It was all so sudden…so sudden and so savage. Before he had the chance to recuperate even slightly from the horrific attack, another blow shook his skull, sending his already unstable body off balance.

The ground rushed to meet the dizzy human, and Roran embraced it wholeheartedly. Never he had experienced pain as intense as this one. His instinct was to scream, shout as loud as an enraged beast, but something stopped him from doing that. The muffled scream which was released from his throat was nothing like it used to be as it was quickly accompanied by spurts of blood when his mouth refused to open.

Horrified, Roran instinctively moved his arm to his damaged jaw. His fingers touched a warm, solid surface that was slimier and much tougher than skin. Only then Roran knew why his mouth refused to open: his lower jaw was shattered and detached from its usual place and fragments of bone pierced the side of his face. Disgusted beyond belief by the extent of the damage that was done to him, Roran tried to rise up and fight.  
A huge weight pressed on top of his back, making him gag in the process.

"Don't take your time if the other one is dead! Come and finish this one off and then chop him as you'd like," said the arrogant man.  
Roran felt his ribs crack under the pressure of the man's foot.  
"Die shamefully, you rat!" he spat and kicked Roran in the spine.

A moment after, an intense pain overcame his being before everything went black.

"That went easier than I expected," the man sneered and gave the sword back to the armored man.  
"I trust you killed the other one?" he asked.

The armored man simply nodded and moved his hand across his neck, then chest, emphasizing a certain shape.

"I didn't ask you how you did it," he sighed.

"The empi'eh betta be fillin' dis mug well, eith'a go killin' for a dh'ink!" Mug barged in.

"There will be a substantial reward, I assure you," the leader spoke on a tone full of arrogance. "Now let us leave and wash ourselves of blood in rivers of coin."

** So that's it. The Roran chapters are officially over, and what an ending there is to them! This chapter is by far one of the best and funniest things I've ever written. Why, it's quite obvious. So, what did you think of Roran's mission and the council representative? More important, what's your opinion on Mug? He is more skilled than Roran himself! I mean, he defeated 3 bandits using a mug! **

** Please leave a review and show your appreciation for this excellent chapter. If not for the plot, do it for Mug! He'll probably be drinking in a pub by the time you post, so cheers! **


	34. The Stranger

**I'd like more reviews, if possible. They make me very happy, more happy than a kid surrounded by chocolate bunnies**

An ominous breeze whistled through the darkened landscape, carrying the scent of blood and decay from the inner parts of Gil'ead. Although the elves tried to keep the casualties to a minimum, the human mind was weak, easily influenced by emotions which too often led them on a wrong path.

_It's their fault,_ Seruniel thought, looking at the sky. T_hey are savage, close minded and aggressive._ The grey clouds would soon spill their content, their cleansing waters paying a tribute to Oromis too.

It was the third day since Gil'ead had been captured, but it was not a victory that brought joy and celebration. It was a defeat that took its toll by claming the lives of Oromis elda and Glaedr.

Seruniel didn't like the clouds. Their gray, menacing bosom threatened to spill their contents this cold morning and weep, shedding crystalline tears for one who was once lord over the skies. Fairly young and inexperienced to join this war, Seruniel had a limited knowledge regarding Oromis and Glaedr. Try as he might to sympathize with the elders and feel the same heartache, experience the scathing sorrow, he couldn't. Others might consider him weird, with a perverse mind which lacked proper respect and education, but Seruniel was good at not drawing attention. He looked plain and ragged like straw in an open field, ravaged by a storm. His brown, uncombed hair flowed past his shoulders, covering a part of his torn and soiled green tunic. His brown leggings were in no better shape, but a city under attack could not provide the luxury of his home in Osilon. Seruniel stared at the clouds for a moment, then glanced away.

It was painful to remember the beauty of the forest, the fresh smell of dewy grass and the comfort provided by his home; the soft touch of his clean sheets and the hearty amount of food provided by the nature itself.

Seruniel shook his head and got up from his makeshift perch. While not quite a guard tower, the pile of rubble and stone fell from a ruined section of the city wall provided a good vantage point. Everything about Gil'ead made Seruniel cringe: pungent smells of perspiration and blood that soaked the muddied cobblestone; still, lifeless bodies that had yet to be dragged away. The houses themselves looked dark and gloomy, a stain of depravation compared to the glorious Du Weldenvarden and the beauty of elven structures.

Seruniel looked around. It was unusually warm for such an early hour. It was one thing Seruniel was content with. His guard post was located on the opposite part of Lake Isenstar, and the city walls acted as a barrier in the path of the chilling wind that usually blew from it. For one moment, there was nothing prominent about the landscape: Trees, a path, more trees in the distance, and open field on the left, where the lumberjacks made quick work of the majestic verdant forms which towered defiantly above the land. Nothing was wrong, until…

Seruniel frowned slightly at the sight in front of him. A weathered traveler was approaching from the forest with slow, trudging steps. Usually a vigilant scout, Seruniel could not quite explain this stranger's appearance. It was as if the forest itself spat it out from its innards, and his clothing was a testimony for this sudden appearance. Disheveled, with a white, unkempt beard, he appeared to be an ordinary old man. Maybe he was just a visiting citizen, returning to its home city.

However, the circumstances were grim, and one could not simply walk into Gil'ead at this point. After the elves secured the city, every human was locked in its house, a prisoner in what used to be their former city. Seruniel didn't care a lot about humans; it was because of them that the forest disappeared on the left, it was because of the Empire he was dragged into this war, it was the reason why he was not at home now.

Islanzadi considered such actions necessary, especially when Galbatorix had spies planted everywhere. Bound by oaths, those humans no longer had a will of their own, and the less casualties, the better their reputation would be with the Varden.

"Greetings," the man said hoarsely. "I came here for the funeral of Oromis the Sage."

Seruniel's frown deepened, and he almost reached for his sword. What held him back was the shaggy appearance of this old man. Although his face was wrinkled, his deep green eyes had an intelligent and deceitful power in them. Compared to him—an elf, the old man was powerless. Still, Seruniel was nervous. He never heard of a human who had known Oromis.

"Your concerns should lie elsewhere," Seruniel said. "Only a privileged few are allowed into the city, and-"

"But young one," he said calmly. "I knew Oromis."

Seruniel was surprised and confused. "You did?"

The man brushed his beard casually. "Dear boy, I knew him very well. I knew how he truly was." He reached into a pouch dangling from his side and presented an old, musty scroll to him. "Soranaar. The ballad of the First Rider."

Seruniel blinked apprehensively and reached towards the scroll, but the man jerked his hand back before he could do so.

"No you don't," he sneered. "This is a gift from Oromis himself, and-"he seemed to analyze the blackened city, its crumbled sections of the walls, "there are only two copies left." With a quick move, he stuffed it into his pouch and fixed his eyes on Seruniel.

"I can't say I've heard of it."

The old man raised an eyebrow. "You haven't?"

"No," Seruniel said curtly, feeling slightly embarrassed.

"It's beautiful," the man said, looking at the sky with a melancholic stare. "The poem is a homage brought to Eragon the Peacebringer; it elevated his feats and stirred the hearts of many elves. The blood of their kin and dragons alike still wet the ground, yet they sang and danced…"

"I…heard about Du Fyrn Skulblaka," Seruniel said uncertainly.

"Many elves died, many," the old man started to babble. "Until Eragon appeared— the first elven Rider, the bloody war thinned the numbers of both races tremendously-"

"Are you a scholar?" Seruniel interrupted, much to the old man's displeasure. "I didn't know that your race-"

"My race?"

"That humans are well accustomed with elven lore," Seruniel said awkwardly.

"Do not be quick with conclusions," the old man said. "Not everything is as it appears to be. For example-"he looked at the forest patch behind him. "What do you see?"

"Trees?" Seruniel answered, glancing unsurely at the man to make sure he hadn't missed something obvious. A peculiar question it was, but this old man was not just a simple human. If he was, he wouldn't sit in front of him, talking about Oromis and the elves.

"That's right. But when you look better," he said, moving his hand in an arc to include the deforested patch. "You will see that everyone attributes them a different purpose. Humans see them as wood, a raw material for their contraptions and houses, and elves consider them a part of the world without which balance cannot be preserved."

Seruniel looked at the trees thoughtfully for a moment, then nodded. _He definitely is a scholar.  
_  
"What's your name, stranger?"

"My name is Tenga, master elf," the man said politely. "A scholar too old for menial journeys."

Seruniel weighed his answer, searching for possible flaws. There were none, but a human that knew Oromis still made him feel uneasy. However, Oromis had his own secrets, and his kindness and compassion for humans was known by everyone. It would be unfair not to let Tenga present one last homage to him, especially when the scroll was a present from the elves, most likely. He wanted to know more, especially the details about how he came to know Oromis, but those eyes, the harsh, lustrous emerald eyes safeguarded his secrets well within their indomitable gaze.

"If you knew Oromis, that means you have been to Ellesmera," Seruniel prodded carefully for information.

"I have seen Ellesmera, but we used to scry each other," said Tenga. "When there is no strength left in your frail legs, even getting up in the morning becomes a tedious obstacle."

_He has magic powers!_ Seruniel thought, struck by this revelation. It all seemed to make sense for him. He had heard that Oromis-elda was still keeping contact with the outside world, and scrying was the most convenient method.

"I can not be the one to deny you the opportunity to bid farewell to Oromis and Glaedr," Seruniel said, moving aside to allow safe passage for Tenga. "However, as a guard, my duty is to escort you."

Tenga's face lightened, a smile stretching across his wrinkled face. "Your kindness is to be commended. I can not extinguish in peace before sharing my knowledge about Oromis so that his memory will rightfully exist in the minds of the next generation."

"Your words are laced with truth and beauty, Tenga," Seruniel said, offering him a steady hand to help him cross the rubble and enter the city.

"You revere your kind, young one," Tenga smiled, walking besides him.

Seruniel led Tenga through the outskirts of the cities, where poverty and filth were omnipresent. Vines clustered on the peeled off walls of the small houses with dirtied windows. With so much filth to block the light, their purpose became obsolete.

Tenga inspected them curiously, and then Seruniel had to explain him why some high voices permeated the air around the houses. He frowned slightly when he heard that humans lay trapped in their own houses, but did not object. Seruniel was impressed by his deterrence when it came to this subject. This lessened his suspicions about him being an agent of the Empire. At his age, he had probably seen death and suffering, or maybe the Empire disgusted him as much as it irritated the other elves. Turning a blind eye to your own kin was no easy feat, but Tenga… there was something odd, almost special, about him.

Surely enough, they encountered more and more elves along the way, most of them unpleased with his presence. Seruniel could only imagine what would have happened to Tenga were it not for him. Most elves looked at him with contempt and disgust, and some of them even unsheathed their swords, wishing nothing more than to expel this stranger out of their midst.

While most of them apologized and bowed their heads to Seruniel as they passed, a sign of acceptance of the stranger, some continued to stare at him with the same revulsion of a predator in front of a helpless prey that dared fighting back.

After their shouts and hateful spirits down died a little, Seruniel explained to Tenga that a gathering was going to take place in the middle of the city where the belongings of the deceased Rider would be present for everyone to see and speeches would honor the memory of him and Glaedr. Tenga nodded and continued to follow Seruniel through the noisy crowd. One would think that funerals were supposed to be blanketed by a veil of silence and somberness, but the young, talkative elves clearly had no idea that questions about who Oromis was and why he was so great had to wait for a better timing.

"They are too talkative," Tenga said, a slight grudge darkening his voice. "They tarnish the memory of Oromis and Glaedr with their very presence."

"They are young," Seruniel tried to explain, evading a passing woman who couldn't stop sobbing. "Most likely, they haven't even seen Oromis."

Tenga said nothing. Eruniel used the silence to solve yet another problem. "We have to talk to Queen Islanzadi. Before I summon her, I expect you to go inside that building," he said, pointing at one of the more respectable dwellings. "It's where she is staying for the time being, but it should be empty."

Tenga nodded and pulled the hood to conceal his face better. Seruniel looked at him warily as he made his way towards the Queen's quarters. By now, the streets were almost empty, and the direction in which Tenga was going distanced him from the central part of Gil'ead. Sighing with relief, Seruniel ran a hand through his hair and headed towards the place where the commemoration attracted a sea of elves.

When he arrived in the center of the city, Seruniel gasped at the multitude of colors. Each elf was wearing a rich but somber garment laced with golden fabrics, the color of Glaedr's sparkling scales. The colors varied from dark to green, but each of them was a deep shade, maintaining an eye catching contrast.

Seruniel's clothing was unfit for the funeral, but his duty was to guard the city, not to attend it. With great difficulty, he practically waded through the sea of elves. Most of them allowed him room. His tattered clothes were a clear sign that he was on guard duty, and the discipline of elves included an urgency of movement when a guard had to report something.

When he finally reached the middle, his eyes settled on the ground covered with golden linen fabric. There were fairths, sculptures depicting both Oromis and Glaedr, and a special section where a multitude of scrolls with the name of its author scribbled on them were piled up. _Poems,_ Seruniel thought. But marveling at the works of art was not a luxury he could afford, and he could almost feel the disapproving glances embedding in his body like tiny spears.

The Queen was stationed somewhere in the middle of the offering, glancing at a much beautiful Fairth with Oromis flying on Glaedr above the lush forest of Ellesmera. It was only now when Seruniel noticed Naegling, the glittering golden blade, but his eyes did not settle on it for long. There were no guards with Islanzadi. With so many elves around, no one would even dare attack her.

As he approached her, he couldn't help but notice her dark blue attire that gave her a majestic appearance. She looked plain, not much different than the other elves. Funerals, above all else, promoted unity between the elves. Here, the ranks did not matter. They were all friends and acquaintances for the deceased one.

"Your majesty," Seruniel said formally, performing the traditional elven greeting. "A matter of great importance requests your presence."

She frowned slightly. "What is it?"

"Well—"he paused, searching for the right words. "An old man named Tenga claims that he knows Oromis, and he even has a scroll about some ballad for the First Rider."

"Solanaar?" she appeared surprised, almost shocked. "Lead me to him. I would like to speak to this man." Seruniel bowed and made his way through the benevolent crowd which created a passage for them.

"And the copy is authentic?" Islanzadi inquired.

"I believe so," Seruniel said unsurely. "It's musty and the writing—"

"Only one copy exists in Ellesmera," the Queen interrupted. "The other one belonged to Oromis, but we never found it. If this Tenga has it, then he truly met Oromis at some point in his life, and somehow gained his trust faster than Eragon did." Her last words were hard and coated with slight envy. Elves took great pride in their artifacts, especially the very old ones, and when someone happened to own them, it triggered an innate dislike for said person.

Tenga did as Seruniel told him. When he and Islanzadi entered the house, Tenga got up from a chair and approached them, bowing his head to Islanzadi and respecting the elven greeting.

"Tenga," she said. "Your arrival surprised me greatly. It's not often that a human succeeds in sneaking into our cities, but I understand that you are not quite a mere human."

"Apologies, Queen Islanzadi, but my arrival has been foreshadowed by this tragic event." He groaned and tried to straighten his hunched back, a crack disturbing the silence. "I knew Oromis, probably better than most elves here." Islanzadi's eyes narrowed, and for a moment Seruniel thought that such words would seal his fate. However, nothing happened.

"It would be an honor and a privilege to share my knowledge about him," he said, coughing a few times to adjust his voice. Then, he reached into his pouch and presented the scroll to Islanzadi, who picked it from his frail hand with a quick move.

"It's only natural that what belonged to him once should return to its owner."

Islanzadi's emerald eyes ran across the scroll for a moment before she folded it and gave it to Seruniel. He knew instinctively that the Queen wanted it to join the rest of the ceremonial objects.

"A friend of Oromis is a friend of mine," she smiled, beckoning Tenga to follow them. Seruniel was quite bewildered at how easily a small object could win the trust of the Queen herself, but finally complied and shut the door behind.

The huge colored circle of elves cracked open to allow them entrance. The Queen moved first, her blue gown fluttering slightly above the ground. Many of the elves threw Tenga incredulous looks, but some were just plain puzzled. The Queen's presence was the only thing that kept them silent. Seruniel knew how the crowd of elves exploded when they entered the city, but now, the situation was totally different.

Islanzadi sat in front of the fairths with Oromis and Glaedr, her back at the platform designed for the ones which were going to hold the commemoratory speech. By facing the crowd of elves, she appeared as a paragon of power, represented by the ones who were going to step on the platform. Islanzadi was the symbol of the Elven People, so it was only natural that the elves would pay her homage. To avoid a possible disorder and chaos regarding the selection of those who wanted to speak, the aspirant was supposed to step forward and say its name. In some cases, the Queen would nominate some exceptional elves, and this time, it was no different.

"Tenga," the queen said on her usual dignified tone. Seruniel watched with surprise as the gnarled man walked onto the platform, which was wooden boards piled on top of another.

"The human in front of you has been a friend of Oromis, and his trust was repaid with a copy of Solanaar, the Ballad of the First Rider. As some of you know, only Oromis had a copy, the other being held in Ellesmera. He has proven that he was worthy of Oromis' and Glaedr's trust, and through his words, he shall prove that he deserves ours."

"Your majesty," Tenga bowed his head, and then looked at the rest of the elves. "Oromis was a great elf, but before all, he was righteous in his choices and resolute when it came to dabble with dark powers." The elves said nothing, but most of them were looking at him curiously. Seruniel too was impatient to hear what the human had to say.

"Before I follow the traditional elven rite and honor his memory, I shall tell you about a people that existed before the proud elves, a people which suffered a tragic extinction that banned most of the information about them. While many disagreed and condemned them for what they did—or particularly, what one did— their influence still lingers in Alagaesia, for before our time, this land was theirs." The Queen frowned slightly, but did not interrupt him.

"They were named the Grey Folk. Some vestiges can be encountered today, and they too will disappear. They will be remembered in scrolls only, but traces of their existence would be long gone. One of the more important cities was Crolis-Vaden, the half buried city. An important mining location once, the city developed near the mountains where it began its expansion process. The labyrinth of tunnels and chambers were split into worshipping chambers and training areas for their spell casters. It is unknown why they preferred the underground for their training, maybe it was because of the seclusion it offered, or the shield provided by the rest of the city in case of an attack." Tenga paused, regaining his breath. Seruniel kept wandering why he didn't share the location of the city, but its existence was barely scrambled in history scrolls. Maybe the city just vanished, conquered by nature.

"Very few of their artifacts were found, yet—" Tenga brushed his robe aside and reached towards his right hip. The sound of metal scratching against a tough surface followed, and a collective gasp of surprise followed, but Tenga lifted a hand for silence, and everyone did as he requested.

"Lorhalarn, Shard of Rising Dusk."

"Wha-What…" one elf stuttered.

"Where did you-"

"My Queen, patience," Tenga demanded and glanced towards Islanzadi, who shifted uncomfortably. The sword was unlike any weapon Seruniel set his eyes upon. Intricate runes and patterns decorated the blade, much too complicated for young, inexperienced eyes. The pommel looked even more peculiar, having the aspect of small, jagged and twisted stalactites masterfully chipped, bearing an obsidian color. When Tenga lowered his arm, the sun gleamed off the blade, forcing Seruniel to squint, his eyes watering because of the powerful reflection of light. It was then when he understood why the runes were hard to see, and the patterns did not look random anymore. The fractured lines which Seruniel previously confused with runes actually represented what appeared to be the outline of some form of mountain, with runes carved inside the beautiful pattern.  
_  
Maybe the sword represented a symbol of the city mentioned by Tenga, but the runes embedded on its surface… _Seruniel thought, staring at the blade intently. _They look crude, but somehow powerful, unlike ours. _

"It's truly a marvel of craftsmanship, isn't it?" Tenga smiled, lowering it. "Some claimed that such swords have a strong connection with magic, that they use magic to fuel their hunger and then mingle the energy to unleash their own attack. I never tested it, so…" he trailed off, analyzing the reaction of the crowd. Most of the elves have yet to erase their dumbstruck expressions, and whispers began to reverberate through the crowd. Tenga coughed several times, but the whispers continued. It took the Queen's intervention to silence the shocked elves, and Seruniel could tell that she was very interested in the sword. Maybe Tenga was a fool to present such artifact in front of an elf like her.

"Such a remarkable piece Lorhalarn is. Unfortunately, Oromis was not quite fond of the Grey Folk. He despised them, especially after the most unfortunate fall of their kind. They were known to practice some forbidden magic, which ultimately, was their downfall. But don't let that deceive you!" Tenga suddenly raised his voice, causing most of the elves to wince. "Their other spells were equally dangerous." The whispers grew in intensity. The young ones were losing their patience, and the elders were at hard work berating them verbally or nudging them in the arm.

"But Oromis didn't fear the spells. For him, the wrongness had deeper roots, and he knew that power corrupts even the most resilient of minds. Cold logic deemed such knowledge not worth sharing. Cold logic, however, does not account for the power of free will. It's up to each of us to make use of that knowledge and pursue our goals." He glanced around, his green eyes fixed on everyone. "And even fulfill them."

"Before I go, however," Tenga said, "I will say a few words about Oromis in a language older than the ancient one which the elves speak." No one could hope to comprehend the words that were uttered for a moment before Tenga stopped. Seruniel narrowed his eyes with apprehension and continued to follow Tenga.

A moment of eerie silence followed, the whispers suddenly coming to a stop. Time itself seemed distorted, every elf watching Tenga with a transfixed look. Seruniel knew what this meant. The human made a grave mistake, one of the few which were not lightly suffered by the elves.

Seruniel was beginning to like this human. He was different compared to the others he had seen. He knew it from the very moment he met him. He feared not breaching a ceremony dedicated to the last elven Rider and his scroll gave him certain privilege. However, his knowledge about elves was not quite refined, and he was walking on a very thin thread which would snap after the heralding silence. He almost insulted Oromis, and that was a mistake.

The crowd burst with the force of a volcano, words of disapproval flying while a select few passively glared at the old man. The Queen did her best to soothe the burning spirits, but the young elves which firmly believed that Oromis had no flaws protested and accused the human of lack of coherence and memory.

Tenga bowed to no one in particular—or to everyone, and stepped down carefully. A muffled thump summoned Seruniel's attention. Although it was hardly distinguishable in the sea of whispers and accusations, the distinct sound of something hitting the floor was one Seruniel knew. It was almost like…

Another one followed. Then another. Seruniel had a vague sense of familiarity related to its origins, and the chill crawling across his spine was something he felt before, but he couldn't put his finger on it. It was only when the crowd regained its control when Seruniel realized what was happening, and his heart froze.

"Aranel, Lagel!" an elf screamed with a high pitched voice. Chaos broke loose. Elves sauntered towards the edges of the group where the two elves have fallen. Seruniel squinted, trying to see what was going on, but the sheer number of elves obscured his vision. He was about to break through the ranks of the elves and do his duty when a fierce, bellowing roar caused the whole crowd to shudder.

_What in the…_ Seruniel thoughts froze when his eyes met the dark, menacing shape of the black dragon which was circling the city.

"The Dark King!" An elf shouted.

"Galbatorix!" another one followed.

"It's the mad beast Shruikan," the elf standing next to Seruniel bellowed, pushing him aside in his rush to get out. "To arms!"

What followed could only be described as utter chaos. The whole crowd began to disperse, the outer circles being the first. Some of them were too shocked to even move, their eyes staring fearfully at the belongings of Oromis. The King had come to desecrate them. He truly was insane. In all that mess, the Queen tried to keep order and handle some orders referring to the protection of the artifacts.

Seruniel tried to do something, but his limbs refused to cooperate. In his panic, he tried looking for Tenga. It was possible that the old man could become the victim of one of the young elves. Yet he was nowhere to be seen.

A loud, shrilling cry chilled the blood in Seruniel's veins. It came from where the Queen was standing. In a few strides, Seruniel reached the center, but then, he stopped, as if an invisible force held him into place.

"Tenga!" he shouted. The blade in the old man's right hand pierced Islanzadi's chest.

"Her fate shall be yours," he said with hate coated voice, his green eyes sparkling threateningly. "But not this day."

With a speed he did not deem possible, Tenga withdrew the sword and for a brief moment, Seruniel realized that the rune near the tip was glowing with a faint, silvery light.

"It absorbs magical energy when it kills elves," Tenga sneered, as if he noticed the confusion in his horrified stare. The elves surrounding Islanzadi began to chant in the ancient language and some even charged at the old man, preparing to land a fist in the skull of the one who killed the Queen, but like cursed misfortune itself, Tenga performed a circular slash around. In that exact moment, Seruniel and the other elves were knocked back by a powerful gust of wind, sending them crashing on the back.

The elves positioned behind the fallen ones began chanting in the ancient language, erecting wards against sword blows and other spells. Others attempted to knock Tenga down with wind blasts or to hold him in place, but their contorted figures showed that the old man could not be so easily subdued. Shruikan's menacing roars still reverberated through the air filled with tension, but the elves were too shocked by what happened, and ignored them. Instead, their attention was directed at Tenga, who could attempt to kill one of them at any given moment.  
_  
Elves, channel your magic,_ Lord Dathedr said to him and the other elves. _We're going to use a series of spells passed down to us through each Lead Rider, some that were used when Du Fyrn Skulblaka ended, and our magic was most potent. _

Seruniel was uncertain of what Dathedr was talking about, but it was not a proper moment to question the one that could end the dire situation. Obeying, he opened his mind to him and funneled a part of his magical energy, the process making his limbs shake and frame tremble with weakness.

Through tired eyes, Seruniel glanced at Tenga, who adopted a defensive posture. He was as cautious as the elves were, for an attack could easily expose him to a sudden retaliation from one of their ranks. For a moment, Seruniel's gaze drifted towards the now bloodied dark sword, its lethal blade coated in crimson liquid. The rune near its tip was not glowing anymore. Could it be…

"Islanzadi was crippled by pain and grief once her mate had been vanquished. Her leadership has led your people astray, vigilance and lack of ambition keeping you secluded while the world changed around you. There will come a time when you will realize that nothing is eternal." Tenga's lips stretched into a smile, his green, cold eyes looking at each elf with contempt. Such eyes wanted more than just delivering a speech in the memory of Oromis. They lusted for revenge.

"Look at you!" he said. "Wasting a sliver of the time that is too merciful with your kin to mourn the past while your allies die in their reckless attacks, their lives too short to care for such insignificant things."

The crowd of elves gasped and cried alarmingly. Tenga, displaying the same unnatural speed as before, whirled and slashed two elves, the lifeless bodies falling to the floor with a sickening thump.

"Gratitude for allowing me to claim my inheritance," Tenga said kindly.

_Dathedr, do something!_ A desperate cry resonated in Seruniel's mind, making him flinch. Silence. The other elves prepared to charge, but Tenga pointed at them with his sword.

"When he wakes up, ask him why I so easily distinguished the spell he was going to use. But for now…"

The cobblestones around Tenga imploded into shards of rock, dust slowly rising around him. The elves drew back instinctively as Tenga walked towards the offerings, stone breaking and exploding around him. He was going to do something. Something terrible.

Seruniel tried to withdraw, his weakened body lurching and legs giving in when an elf pushed him from the left. With no means to regain his balance, he fell to the ground. Although terrified, he still turned his head around to look at Tenga. There was a smile on his face. Whatever he came here for was in his grasp.

"Stone storm."

The stone particles left from the crushed cobblestones acquired a circular yet chaotic move, pounding the crowd relentlessly with fine, sharp, and quite dangerous shards that moved at frightening speed controlled by Tenga's magic. The other elves dropped to the ground too, even if their wards deflected the stone chips.

"That's quite impressive elves," Tenga's chilling voice bellowed. "Dathedr, however, decided that offense is the best defense. I'll prove you that he was wrong."

The intensity of the spell increased, and the rocks below Seruniel gave in, shattering at Tenga's command.

"Why, how…" the frightened elf stuttered, crawling away into the middle of the crowd where Tenga's spell was weak and inefficient. The others, however, were not faring well, and by the time Seruniel distanced from the inner circle of elves, cries of pain and agony mixed with the whooshing of stone.

Seruniel shouted and lifted his head from his lower position to watch Tenga, but the old man smiled and vanished from his view, along with the personal effects of Oromis and tribute. Rock shards and dust fell upon the crowd of elves: a harmless layer of filth that just moments before wreaked havoc and pain upon them.

"He…teleported?" An elf stuttered.

** The awesomeness in this chapter is second to none. In my opinion, it is the best chapter in my fanfic so far, mostly because it has so much suspense, a lot of action happening at the end and nice dialogues between characters. When I proof-read it, I felt very excited because of how this chapter turned out. **

** Please, leave a comment if you liked it. There is a lot to talk about, lots of theories waiting to be developed and speculations to spawn. **


	35. A New Ruler

"How could our sentries even allow a human in our midst? Has Islanzadi's intuition withered so much as to be incapable of seeing through deception?" Lord Fiolr said, a frown darkening his once impassive expression.

"I am confident in the capabilities of our sentries," Meldor, an elder elf, replied in return. "This human has persuaded the guards somehow. Such deception comes natural to humans, and there's a particular event in our history that bears testimony of why humans are more dangerous than we think."

"You are confused, aged one. If the younger generation would not have been denied of a word for the Queen's ears, none of this would have happened." This time, it was Norlan who addressed his kinsmen. He was a young, but witty and shrewd elf who was invited only because of his rank as Master of Swords. He was leading the melee force of the elves, and his 'aggressive when needed, defensive when forced' tactics quickly impressed the Queen. At least, to the point where she would bestow such a privileged rank upon an elf younger than most of his troops.

"We were not prepared for such intrusion," Dathedr said solemnly, coughing to get the attention of the rest of the elves. "Instead of planting discord among ourselves and our people, we should seek the best remedy for our immediate problem."

"That's easy for you to say, Dathedr," Nolran smiled, looking at him with cold blue eyes. "Your words of wisdom can not cover the fact that your impotence has caused not only the death of our Queen, but also took unnecessary lives."

"Young, but perceptive. However, your empty arguments will not work on Dathedr, Nolran," Fiolr said coolly, raising his head to match Dathedr's eyes. "He is much too… shallow."

Meldor shifted in his seat before he intervened, "Such insolence… I will not have it!" The other two looked at him with questioning looks.

"You know that humans cannot be trusted. How many more must die to shatter your ideals? How much blood will wet the earth before logic finally makes its way into that entangled mind of yours?"

Fiolr's expression lightened. "Nolran, blunt and not chiseled. Sometimes I wonder why we don't listen to him."

Dathedr said nothing. A huge burden rested on his shoulders, now that Islanzadi was dead. It happened so fast, so sudden, that not even his disciplined mind could cope with the shock produced by the aftermath of this event. Islanzadi was a great leader and an honorable queen, and Dathedr knew of the curiosity and trust she harbored for the human race. It was this trust that allowed the bonds between the elves and the humans to strengthen through Arya during her time as an ambassador, and Dathedr feared for the future of this relationship. Although no elf would destroy an alliance, there was no telling what would happen should Fiolr, or Nolran, as unlikely as it sounded, acquire the title of Regent until another King or Queen would rightfully claim the throne.

"You know the point of our meeting," Fiolr broke the silence. "As long as there is no Regent to lead our people, chaos will quickly ensue, and time is a luxury we quite lack at the moment."

"Let us proceed, then," Nolran said, shrugging. The young elf with silver hair had an air of nonchalance, yet Dathedr knew that he craved to prove himself to the elder elves and provide evidence that old customs were outdated and ineffective. Above all, he was a skilled commander, but his tough nature lacked compassion, a trait much needed for the leader of the elves.

Each elf sat at the square table according to their rank and relationship with the queen. Dathedr, being a high ranked noble, sat at the front of the table, while Fiolr and Meldor sat next to him on the sides, and Nolran farther away from them. Dathedr knew that the young elf was not pleased with his almost insignificant place at the table, his ambition not soothed by the privilege of even being in the same room with the other lords.

"I nominate Fiolr," Nolran said, leaning his head on his fist in boredom.

Three lamps spread their dim light across the small room. The darkened sky obscured the sun, and they could not rely on natural light to enter through the dirt stained glass window. The elves cared little for human buildings, and because of that, they never bothered to decorate or find them pleasant. Such unnatural contraptions could never replace the beauty of Du Weldenvarden and the elven houses. Most of the important meetings were still held in Islanzadi's tent, but the recent events opted out that option, so Dathedr chose a random building to hold the meeting, away from the crowd of confused and frightened elves.

"I nominate Meldor," Fiolr said, summoning Dathedr's attention. Although he knew that Fiolr never sympathized him, he still hoped that he would see reason and think his choice thoroughly.

"I nominate Dathedr," Meldor said, looking straight into his eyes.

Dathedr felt lost. Right now, he could nominate himself and lead the elves as Islanzadi would, continuing her tradition and mend their distrust of humans in time.

"I nominate Meldor," Dathedr said. Nolran and Fiolr appeared surprised with his choice, but they did not quite show it.

"Lead wisely, Meldor, and may the stars watch over you and grant you the wisdom to overcome our terrible loss."

"Thank you, Dathedr," Meldor said. "As soon as the confusion ends, I'll open the election ceremony so that the throne can once again belong to a rightful ruler."

"Wise words, Meldor," Fiolr said, pushing his chair back to get up. "I wouldn't be surprised if a human ends up on the throne." The elven lord eyed them both with displeasure and walked out of the room without bothering to close the door behind. Nolran, after displaying his courtesy to Meldor, walked out to catch up with Fiolr.

_These two worry me,Dathedr thought, looking at the young elf who quickly disappeared from view._

"Why did you nominate me?" Meldor asked, approaching Dathedr. "You are wiser and more compassionate than I am. You were Islanzadi's favored. Why wouldn't you respect her wishes? Why would you ignore her legacy?"

"I don't ignore it," Dathedr sighed. "I just did what is right for our people."

Meldor laid a hand on his shoulder. "You still suffer because of the ill touch of destiny, I see."

"How can I not?" Dathedr said, looking away from Meldor. "I asked the elves to empower me with their energy so that I could deliver the blow in Islanzadi's stead, but Tenga saw through my plans. Instead of helping the elves, I weakened them, and you know the outcome better than I."

"Tenga was a crafty opponent. A powerful and cold human that has more secrets than we can figure," Meldor said with a worried voice. "However, it was our mistake for letting him attack us during our most vulnerable time. Maybe his attack was not a coincidence. It's not likely that both Galbatorix and this Tenga attack during a funeral which was not supposed to reach outside ears."

* * *

Seruniel let out a guttural groan. His arms were still trembling, legs still shaking. It was his first encounter with a life threatening experience, and his mind had yet to recover from the shock. Even though the crowd began to disperse, Seruniel was still pinned to the ground because of his inability –or unwillingness—to stand up. Numerous voices shouted around him, the elder elves trying to enforce order or simply strengthen the young ones. Seruniel arched his head when a familiar name reached his ears.

"They are dead, Lord Dathedr," an elf said with a firm voice. "Six of them. The rock shards were hurled with too much force against the wards…"

"Move them," Dathedr commanded. "We shall return them to the earth tomorrow when we will pay homage to Oromis-elda and Glaedr."

"There is another problem," the elf said hurriedly. "The offerings for Oromis-elda and Glaedr…"

"Speak your piece, Firiel!"

"They're gone," the elf said on a sad tone. "Tenga did something with them. The wretched human!"  
There was an eerie silence for a moment. Dathedr appeared to be pondering, and the rest of the elves dared not to let out even a whisper.

"Pick up our fallen," Dathedr said curtly and paced away. "This is our primary concern for now."

Images of the previous battle flashed through Seruniel's mind. While the elves did their best to shield themselves from Tenga's spell, the old man used the distraction to slip away unscathed by simply vanishing, together with the offerings. One elf said he teleported. If his words were true, then…

_He can't be that far away! Seruniel thought without a shadow of doubt, getting up in an instant. __I must inform the lords. Tenga took us by surprise, but if we attack him, he'll be at a grave disadvantage. Teleportation must have weakened him greatly._

An elf shuffled away from Seruniel's sight, revealing the body of one of the fallen. Driven by a sinister curiosity, Seruniel walked forward. The first thing he noticed was the clotted blood mixed with dirt. Seruniel frowned at the sickening color and summoned enough willpower to look farther away. A bloodied robe met his eyes, the once beautiful emerald material tattered and pierced in numerous places. The material was even torn in some places where Tenga's spell tore the fabric apart. Seruniel gasped, but did not look away. The owner of the robe looked nothing like the elf he used to be. The storm of minuscule rock particles tore his skin off. Seruniel immediately glanced away, but death seemed to be everywhere. He saw an elf with his neck punctured, then one similar with the first, then another…

"Leave, young one," a voice rang in his ear. Seruniel jerked violently when a hand touched his shoulder. "Unless you help me pick up the fallen."  
Seruniel stared at the elf for one brief moment and ran away, desperate to escape the gruesome sight.

* * *

Meldor sat in the same small room lit by the soft and diffuse light of oil lamps. Numerous blank vellums sat in front of him, waiting for the quill to darken their surface. Now a Regent, his task was to draw down numerous assignments for the other lords and Masters with the purpose of reinstalling order in the city.

Meldor sighed and dipped the quill into the oily black substance. Scribing was an activity he was never quite fond of, yet the responsibility of the elven people now rested on his shoulder. The discipline and organization of the troops had always been reinforced by a sturdy set of orders, without which a part of their efficiency would fade.

After drafting the necessary tasks related to sentry assignments and defensive tactics, Meldor rested the quill back on its wooden support. He wasn't a warrior, nor a strategist. Poems and philosophy were his passions, as well as the study of human race. Unlike most elves that deemed humans deceptive and not trustworthy after Galbatorix's betrayal, Meldor was fond of them and quickly allowed past transgressions to fade. Above all, he wasn't a hypocrite that would condemn an entire race due to the mistakes of a few individuals while his own people did the same during Du Fyrn Skulblaka.

The door opened with a muffled creak, distracting Meldor from his musings.  
"Dathedr," he said.

The other elf nodded. "There is tension and incertitude blossoming in the minds of our people. One of the Star Swordsmen barely stopped a group of young elves from fleeing."

Meldor tapped the wooden table with his finger, the bottom of his lip curled thoughtfully.

"During the initial confusion, some have already fled back to Du Weldenvarden," Dathedr pressed on. "They are afraid, Meldor. Afraid that a single man could infiltrate our city and kill them so easily. Confused that their Queen could not protect them."

"We were not prepared," Meldor said, looking through the scrolls scribbled with runes. "Tenga's infiltration was planned. Galbatorix knew what this day meant to us."

Dathedr looked at Meldor questioningly. "You think their attacks are somehow related?"

"There is a high possibility," Meldor said. "However, I'd like to quell our people's suspicion before we extract vengeance on this Tenga."

Dathedr nodded curtly, but did not leave. "There is another matter of consequence. Several scouts reported a group of armed elves leaving the city's boundaries. Their thoughts are poisoned with anger and revenge."

"Telros is with them," Meldor said coolly.

"The Master of Bows?"

Meldor nodded, and Dathedr took a step forward.

"You allowed such atrocity?" Dathedr asked with indignation, frowning.

"Tenga may be greatly weakened by the spell he used. Our people need to know that their Regent does not ignore their pleas, and I will not allow a mere human to tarnish Islanzadi's memory. If we joined the Varden before Galbatorix had a chance to secure his throne and expand his vile influence, it would not have come to this."

"Feelings of regret will not help us now," Dathedr sighed. "How many elves are with Telros?"  
"Eleven, two of them being part of Islanzadi's elite guard. You must understand that I can't contain their feelings."

Dathedr looked through the dusty window, his posture still retaining its dignity in spite of the loss every elf suffered.

"I will contact the Varden and inform them of what has transpired."

"Is that wise to do?" Meldor asked with concern.

"I know the humans," Dathedr said, moving towards what supposed to be a door and pulled the wooden board open. He looked back at Meldor with stark silvery eyes.  
"If they lose their leader, the Varden is doomed."

**Most of the loose ends are tied, new quests arise and the problems continue for the elves. It seems Tenga's attack was greater than anyone suspected. Not only that Islanzadi and a few elves died, but some have even fled back home! Will Meldor, the new Regent, stabilize the elves and resurrect their faltering strength? Also, will the elves sent by him find Tenga and deal with him?**

** Of course, you are welcome to answer these questions, post your thoughts and ideas and also critique my work. Every review is appreciated and answered. Before I post, I'll just tell you that the following chapters will be about Eragon and the team. Yep, the story returns to them. **


	36. The Glen

"She is in heat," Angela said, rolling her eyes. "Do I have to repeat myself yet again?"

"I—no…" Eragon mumbled, blocking Angela's way with his sturdy arm. For the past few moments, the herbalist constantly searched for a way to leave and scout for the mushrooms she kept babbling about, but her plans have been unsuccessful due to Eragon's timely reactions.

The group was located at the fringe of the forest, close to where Saphira first landed. After her discussion with Eragon, the dragoness plunged into the cool moist air to search for edible prey that might quench her ever growing hunger. The plains offered no such treats, and Saphira wanted to take opportunity of whatever this lush forest had to offer.

"Are you certain of your claims?"

Solembum hissed and snapped at Eragon's foot. "My boy, your knowledge about dragons is smaller than a freshly sprouted mushroom. You are a most unusual Dragon Rider, and also irritating and persistent," Angela scoffed, frowning.

"Allow her to leave."

"Arya, but—"

Angela chuckled and brushed Eragon's arm aside, humming contentedly while Eragon glared at her. Flicking his tail with indifference, Solembum quickly joined her, his small form padding next to her.

"Do as I say."

Eragon's muscles twitched with eagerness to chase Angela and stop her, but when he met Arya's disapproving gaze, he sighed and moved towards the nearest tree to lean onto.

"She will keep doing whatever she wants," he said, moving a fallen acorn he collected earlier in his palm. "If she is not confronted, her lack of respect is going to cause us trouble."

Arya leaned her slender body on the same tree, close enough to Eragon so that he could inhale her fresh scent of pine needles.

"She's doing it on purpose!" Eragon lamented, tightening his grip on the acorn. "Because we don't know where the Rock of Kuthian is, we have to rely on her, and that's exactly what she desires."

_That goes without mentioning that she takes great pleasure in proving that I'm always wrong,_ Eragon thought with spite.

"Is that all?"

Eragon looked at Arya, puzzled by her calm voice and serene expression. What did she have in mind? Only recently, Eragon thought that he began to understand her, that their bond of friendship was so developed that he could read her thoughts, much of the same way Saphira read his. Instead, he met the same mystery that had always obscured her intentions and feelings.

"Something bothering you?" Eragon asked uncertainly, probing for a reaction that might betray her. It came faster and more surprising than he expected.

Arya grabbed his hand firmly and pointed to a small glen where several rocks of different sizes protruded out of the uneven ground. The unleveled earth continued like that until it gave way to an abrupt slope a little farther away. Sunlight penetrated the emerald boughs, creating a pleasant dance between lights and shadows. While walking besides Arya through the ferns and bushes that got in his way, Eragon squinted, trying to make out the form of a brown object that appeared to be made of canvas.

Only after the vegetation lessened did Eragon understand what the peculiar object represented. He couldn't help but smile and feel his stomach knot with doubt and anticipation. Arya never invited him to sit besides her, much less try and take the initiative to improve their friendship. If the brown bulged sack contained what Eragon suspected, he was going to be proven wrong.

Arya's speed decreased to a shuffle, her emerald eyes taking in the beauty of the forest.

"While no forest is a match for the lush and grand Du Weldenvarden, this place reminds me of something," she said, releasing Eragon's hand and entering the glen. Eragon remained behind.

"It is but a hazy memory in my head, yet…" Arya circled one of the rocks gracefully, her posture similar to a cub that just discovered how grand the world can be after leaving the safety of its den.

"My father, Evandar, used to take me to a similar place in Ellesmera, and I used to climb the lesser rocks. Whenever I reached one that I couldn't climb, he used to tell me that exuberance alone is not enough to climb it, that certain obstacles can only be surmounted in due time."

Arya sighed and looked at one of the round boulders vacantly.

"It's ironic, how an immortal race fails to overcome certain obstacles. My father's words are logically inconsistent. Time is a double edged blade for us; when it doesn't help, it punishes. However…" She trailed off, picking the brown sack and looked at Eragon, her persistent stare inviting him to join her. After clumsily settling on one of the two round and uneven boulders that were situated next to each other, Arya came by his side. Her grip tightened around the small sack, the fabric wrinkling under the pressure.

"After we traveled together, fought side by side with you, I came to realize that Father was not mistaken, no matter how much I refused to accept his words after he left us…after Faolin died… after Oromis perished…. Time gives you the opportunity to find what you are looking for, even if most elves are blind to its role by grief and sorrow for the ones who have fallen. Time was never supposed to fix things, but to allow you to find whatever can fix you."

Arya looked at the brown sack and offered it to Eragon.

"It is fruits," she said faintly, her mouth stretching in half a smile.

Eragon looked at what Arya handed him and gulped emptily. "I don't—I want to hear what you have to say." Arya's arm remained in the air due to Eragon's lack of reaction. Feeling foolish for keeping her waiting, Eragon attempted to remove the weight from her hand, but just as his arm twitched, Arya covered the remaining distance between their arms and leaned forward, handling the sack to Eragon with her right hand while the left was placed on top of Eragon's hand.

"It's you who pulled me out of my grief and sorrow," Arya said, smiling. "You are the reason I have succeeded overcoming that obstacle. Your optimism and hope showed me that it's not worth secluding in a shell forever, withering while the world around you changes. You have my gratitude."

Eragon was surprised, almost shocked by how highly Arya thought of him. Instead of allowing his surprise to stun him, Eragon smiled in return and nodded in acceptance.

"Whatever it takes, Arya," he said. "I'll do whatever it takes to help you, as a—friend would."

Eragon felt his skin bristle and chills ran down his spine. _Why have I paused? She's my friend, nothing more,_ Eragon thought.

"Now eat," Arya said, regaining her powerful and commanding tone. "The forest blessed us with its bounties, so that we don't have to resort to unneeded sacrifices."

Eragon felt a little guilty for being weak when Arya was the opposite, but said nothing. His hands dexterously opened the sack and picked a round yellow fruit.

"You probably know more about dragons than I do," Eragon said through hearty bites as he tore into the fruit. "Is there a reason behind Saphira's change in behavior? She seemed quite affectionate lately, while also indisposed and blunt. While I think of it, she also—"

"She's showing early signs of heat," Arya interrupted, picking several nuts from the bag. "Much has changed since dragons freely soared through the sky, yet some things still remained the same, like the mating season, which starts at the middle of autumn."

Eragon was not overly surprised. Saphira manifested a strong desire to pursue a mate, even though it was impossible for her to find one. Because of that, her sadness and loneliness increased in amplitude, and Eragon still remembered the previous discussion he had with her.

_She's right, I can't possibly give her hatchlings. That's something not even time may remedy,_ Eragon thought.

"But she can't—I mean, what happens if there are no mates available for her?"

Arya looked down. "Not even your love is going comfort her once she is in heat. This world has forsaken her species. It's because of us that she will be deprived of the chance to live a life any dragon should." Arya paused, chewing the remnants of a fruit before she swallowed, her eyes never leaving the ground.

"Because of the Dragon Riders, Saphira may have no mate. She may be alone, forever."

"It's not our fault," Eragon intervened. "It's Galbatorix's madness that brought doom upon the dragons."

Arya shook her head and looked straight into his eyes. "The tyrant solely made use of his tools to secure his Empire. He perceived dragons as tools, and what better way it is to massacre an army than to strip them of their weapons?"

"I will end him," Eragon said with conviction, hate coating his words. "I will do whatever it takes to end his reign of terror and give Saphira a chance to find a suitable mate."

They both continued to eat, no words shared between them. Eragon suspected that Arya did not favor a talk about what they would do once they found the Rock of Kuthian. She was a battle scared veteran, and had known more pain than he had ever experienced. Or maybe, during this moment they spent together, she had chosen not to tarnish the only positive aspect of her life, and therefore chose not to talk about Galbatorix.

After they had finished eating, Arya led Eragon to a brook with crystalline cold water to quench their thirst and also wash away the sticky juice of the fruits off their hands. After Arya quenched her thirst, Eragon carefully climbed down the steep slope that formed the bank of the river. When he crouched above the river and sank his hand in the cold water, the necklace around his neck began pulsing with seething energy.

"What's going on?" Arya asked puzzled, jumping from the higher ground straight into the water.

"The necklace…burning…" Eragon mumbled, dropping to his knees. An arm was the only support that kept him from crashing.

Arya reached him in two strides and placed her hand near Eragon's chest, chanting in the ancient language. The burning necklace immediately cooled off and the pressure exerted on his chest allowed him to breath normally once again. Blinking rapidly to clear his vision, Eragon slurred his words as a sign of gratitude for whatever Arya did, but she was not there anymore.

"Arya—"

"Draumr Kopa," a nearby voice said.

Eragon turned around, puzzled. His eyes met the crouched form of Arya, who used a spell to create a circular hole in the moist soil on the riverbank.

"What are you doing?" Eragon asked through labored breath.

"Arya," a male voice Eragon didn't recognize said. "We find ourselves in need of your presence."

"My presence?" Arya said with her ordinary voice that betrayed no surprise or any other emotion. "What for? My mother's leadership should guide you through our sorrows. I still mourn Oromis, but sitting idly will not uphold his ideals."

"I—well," the scried elf stuttered. "I only do what Dathedr asked. Why are you in a forest? Hasn't the Varden secured Feinster? Where are the thirteen spell casters Islanzadi sent? They were supposed to be our eyes and ears in Feinster, but scrying was impossible."

"They're dead," Arya said nonchalantly. "Galbatorix killed them. They're victims to a cycle that always seems to repeat."

A sudden pause followed, and Eragon suspected that the elf who talked with Arya was shocked by the revelation. Even if the scrying mirror was within his reach, Eragon did not approach it. Not unless Arya considered otherwise.

"Galbatorix—where is Eragon?" the elf asked on al alarmed voice. "What happened to the Varden? And the dark king, why wasn't he ended by Eragon's blade?"

Arya beckoned Eragon to approach. A knot formed in his stomach when he understood his role, but complied without showing his uneasiness. Eragon touched his lips with his fingers, following the traditional elven greeting.

"The Varden still stands with Nasuada as their leader. Galbatorix wreaked havoc among the soldiers, but did not kill many. I do not know his motives, but his ominous mind is more tangled than I expected."

On the other side of the scrying mirror, Eragon could see nothing but a green canvas, and more prominent, the elegant face of a young elf with star colored hair and azure blue eyes that sparkled with worry.

"Why haven't you killed the King?" he asked with an aggravated voice, different that the previous suave flow of words that was pleasant to Eragon's ears while he talked to Arya.

"I underestimated him… and his powers were too vast for me to overthrow him." The elf gasped and Arya looked at Eragon, frowning.

_The Rock of Kuthian,_ Eragon thought. _It's Galbatorix's downfall, but I should not mention it.  
_  
"I know a way to defeat him. By the end of this moon cycle, Galbatorix will exist no more."

"Bold words, Shadeslayer, but my qualm is not directed at Galbatorix for now. An old human by the name of Tenga infiltrated our midst and killed Islanzadi," the elf said faintly, bowing his head.

Arya's eyes widened with apprehension. "How can that be?" she almost yelled. "He couldn't—it's not possible for a haggard and demented old man to travel to Gil'ead and kill my mother under the eyes of the guards."

"Your pain wells inside me, Arya," the elf said, "but your people need to see you and Eragon, to give them hope and to bestow your blessing upon our new ruler."

"No," Arya said, standing. "My mother and Oromis believed in world of peace, where our people do not hide behind our blessed borders. They believed that one day, Galbatorix will be no more. I am going to believe in them." She bowed before the stunned elf and slowly moved away from the scrying mirror. "The time for mourning has passed."

"Shadeslayer," the elf tried to recover, "We need you."

"Alagaesia needs me more. I will continue my journey so that elves will not be tainted by concerns and panic. Farewell."

The elf bowed curtly and the water rippled with colorless currents as the image faded, leaving a blank crystalline surface.

"My mother is dead, our people scattered," Arya lamented softly, her voice trembling slightly. "How long will this continue?"

Eragon jumped on the higher ground overseeing the river bank and put a hand on Arya's shoulder. Her frame trembled slightly, but her emerald eyes shined with gratitude for his support.

"Until we do what is right," Eragon said with conviction.

**Finally a sweet chapter for the people to rejoice. I expect Robin to post, since he made a promise. So, more ExA development, a very nice dialogue between them and Eragon and Arya finally catch up with the news. We also find out more about Saphira's strange behavior and why she is starting to distance herself from Eragon. I think the explanation is pretty reasonable, knowing that dragons have not been born alongside elves or humans. **

** Post your reviews and let me know what you think. I appreciate all your posts and opinions, as they all matter to me. **


	37. A Nuts Dilemma

**I dedicate this chapter to The Meepsta for being awesome in his/her review. Hope you will post some longer ones when you have enough time.**

**Also, if you are a reader, please, post a comment/review/anything. I'd like to hear what you have to say, and if your review is good, I will PM you and clear some of your questions.**

Arya walked besides Eragon as they made their way back from the glen. Angela was waiting for them at the makeshift camp which Eragon organized, and she was probably growing restless by now.

Her feet moved with a lethargic trudge that lacked elegance and poise. Her mother's death deeply affected her, enhancing the suffering produced by Oromis' departure. Every death of a loved one acted like a blow delivered by a mighty hammer, slowly squeezing her, flattening her, burying her under a layer of sorrow from under which she would no longer be able to emerge.

_She's only a part of the many others who perished in this accursed war, Arya_ thought, kicking a fallen branch. _I must not be vulnerable, lest the same stupor induced by the very emotions that almost crippled me will emerge._ For now, this simple thought was the only thing that kept her from crashing, but on a long term, Arya knew far too well that such ignorance will come back in full force.

That was a sacrifice she could afford as long as her new, unusual philosophy kept her strong. Finding the Rock of Kuthian, the key to their desperate plea of help against Galbatorix, was the most important task, one that she could not afford to fail. When the whole Alagaesia found itself in need of her logic and clarity of thought, Arya could not allow sorrow to overwhelm her. She needed to be strong.

Eragon bent his body and picked something off the forest floor, smiling. Arya liked his smile; it remembered her of the times when she could do it freely, without lying to herself or using happiness as a shield against sadness. Maybe that's why she was so fond of it.

"Foloin nuts," Eragon said, smelling the white striped oval fruit. "We should gather some of them."

"They're very hard to crack and mildly nutritional," Arya said, observing the tough shelled nut. "Beor offers a variety of fruits, berries and nuts similar to Du Weldenvarden."

"That would be a good substitute as long as the edible parts are worth the trouble," Eragon said lightly, tossing the nut aside. "Having someone with such extensive knowledge about fruits accompanying me in this journey is more important than I thought."

Arya smiled and glanced at Eragon uncertainly before she focused her attention to a branch which she avoided by sidestepping. She was not sure what to make of her relationship with Eragon as of yet. The Rider has always been kind to her, and recently, fulfilled the role of a paragon that showed her the way out of her misery. His caring attitude and positive views in spite of the suffering the war caused to him revealed to Arya something new, something that did not dwell within pain or gnaw at her mind by digging up past memories. Eragon thought that no matter the pain once was forced to face, it was no excuse to seclude oneself from the world and live an unworthy life of regrets.

He was her friend. The only one the war hadn't taken away. Even if he had been rude, persistent and not chiseled when he pursued her, Arya still considered him her savior. And now, he saved her a second time from a different sort of danger, where she was her own enemy. He was by no means a perfect man—after all, no man could be, but was she to judge someone who proved stronger than her?

Arya got accustomed to pain at an early age. After Evandar died, she had sought comfort in her mother's love, but a Queen had only so much time for a daughter that eventually grew up. Arya had quickly understood her relationship with her mother and fulfilled her role as an ambassador with pride, knowing that each moment spent apart from her pleased her mother and the elven people. She had been the tool that reinforced the contacts between elves, humans and dwarves and never had she pondered her role. Love meant understanding the others and being useful, that's all what she needed to know at that time.

Later in life, when being an ambassador had become a lifestyle, Arya met Faolin, and with him, a new meaning for love. It was different from what her mother or her role for the elves provided, more intense and passionate than ever before. Arya had wished the exhilarating feeling to last as long as her life and maintain its intensity that sent chills through her and made her stomach churn when she caught a glimpse of Faolin after a long journey. But it was torn from her, as all good things are.

She was no longer an ambassador. That much, was certain. She could not bask in the love provided by Faolin, for he was dead. She would never seek comfort from her mother, for she too joined Faolin. There was nothing left for her. The previous life she had lived was empty. Her new life had begun after the battle at Feinster, and Eragon was still with her.

* * *

"Why, I always thought they're named forlorn nuts," Angela laughed. "As an herbalist, I never learned the names of nuts. Why bother with something so similar to pebbles?" Her brow wrinkled, eyebrows met into a frown, and she tossed away the oval shaped nut.

Pacing around, she began mumbling different phrases extracted from books with nuts serving as the main point of interest. One particular sentence seemed to be sharper than her mind, however, for she kept repeating it with only slight differences between the words she used.

"That book had such messy writing! It is no wonder why I got the name wrong. Do they look forlorn to you?"

Eragon smiled wider than usual, feeling the increasing urge to laugh. Even the werecat, who had always traveled alongside Angela, seemed to be bothered by her endless pacing and nervous mumbling. Burying his head in the dense fur on the side of his body, Solembum expressed a complete lack of interest.

For a moment, Eragon wondered if the werecat had understood all of Angela's nonsense. The werecat always struck Eragon as a mysterious and eerie being, even if it did not look out of the ordinary. There was much he didn't know about the werecats.

He was almost certain that Solembum was a shaggy cat with ruby eyes that made him look unlike any other cat he had seen. However, the werecat that was licking its left paw while Angela kept gesturing, explaining why books are confusing and that they are meant to make people stupid, Eragon realized that the werecat had honey colored eyes and white tufts tipped his ears. Two distinctive patches of white fur of moderate length stretching right above his nose vertically until they dissipated at the top of his head. His fur was not quite pitch black, but more of a dark gray. Could werecats change their appearance? What else could they do?

Eragon almost jumped in surprise when Angela's high pitched voice came from a much closer location than the previous one. "You want to pet Solembum."

"W—what?" Eragon asked, dumbfounded. Only now did he realize that he had been staring at the werecat intently. Apparently, his actions hadn't gone unnoticed. Angela was but a few steps away from him, her posture convincing as her voice.

"You want to run your hand through his silky fur," Angela said with conviction. "I can see it in your eyes."

"I wasn't—I mean, no," Eragon stuttered, distraught by her serious tone. "It's just that… that…"

_I can't possibly tell her about Solembum's change of appearance,_ Eragon suddenly realized, glancing away from Angela's persistent and somewhat terrifying gaze.

"Of course you can," Angela smiled, her eyes acquiring a playful look. "Why do you look so appalled? It's not because you think his fur is dirty, right?"

Eragon in turn sketched a wan smile. "No… it doesn't look like it is," he said, trying to sound as mirthful and convincing as possible. It was just Angela, after all.

"Come then, come," she beckoned enthusiastically, making sure to sneak a glance at the werecat as she did so. "Don't be afraid, he's very gentle with friends. Speaking of which, I do hope he considers you a friend. I find you downright irritating."

Eragon continued to walk, ignoring Angela's comments. For her, everything was a game. After Galbatorix's attack, Angela was the only cheerful and excited Varden, if only because she had finally had the opportunity to leave Feinster and discover a new kind of mushroom, one that lived on the cave walls. For the better part of this journey, that was the only information Eragon had made out of her mumblings.

"Come on, quickly now, you're slower than Tenga in the morning," she said, sitting on the ground besides Solembum. The werecat purred affectionately and dug his head in her hand.

"His fur is nowhere as rough as Saphira's scales, and his paw pads are so soft and pleasant to the touch," Angela chuckled, picking one of Solembum's front paws. The werecat seemed not to object as Angela caressed his smooth dark gray fur with her other hand.

Eragon carefully approached the werecat who turned his head to him, his honey colored eyes staring intently. When he was close enough, Eragon reached with one hand towards Solembum, but his intrusion seemed to obliterate the werecat's relaxation.

Solembum spat and hissed at the bulky arm, lashing out with its claws at fingers too dexterous and far away for him to grab onto. Angela frowned deeply and got up. She stood in front of the werecat whose bristled fur and menacing eyes displayed nothing but hostility.

Frowning, she said with a condemning tone. "I knew he didn't like the way you stared at him! With your ugly and big eyes…" She glared at him and turned around, trying to calm the hostile werecat.

"Weird, my beloved, weird and ugly. Not pretty like you," she mumbled, glancing with piercing eyes towards Eragon. He very well knew what that look meant, and Eragon felt relieved that he didn't have to insult Angela by turning down her request.

Eragon walked away, taking a turn through some underbrush to conceal his presence with the aid of the numerous tall trees. He felt a little sore and upset about yet another encounter with Angela that went wrong, but he dared not to ponder on it too much. The herbalist was a very peculiar person that hardly suffered human beings, and her negative traits seemed to surface as she spent more time among him. Eragon did not care much about her. She was their guide, and he was not in need of her friendship. Arya and Saphira were a much more pleasant company.

_And certainly not deranged,_ Eragon thought as he skidded down a slope, running towards the glen where Arya was supposed to wait for him.

* * *

"We name it Calling," Arya said, her supple fingers moving along the necklace Eragon used to wear. It was a gift from a priest whose name he did not remember, and Eragon had almost forgotten its presence should it not suddenly start to burn and draw out his breath.

"It's the only procedure our race borrowed from the dwarves. As you already know, their race uses these necklaces to protect themselves from scriers. Since they cannot manipulate magic the way we do, their greatest fear was of elves and humans knowing what they do all the time, and use this information to assassinate them while asleep."

It was evening already. A soft breeze moved the lethargic leaves hanging on the boughs of trees, the rustle pleasant to Eragon's ears. With the sun concealed by the distant mountains, crickets started to emerge under the azure sky rippled with nuances of white. Eragon always wondered why clouds so thin could stand in the sky without dispersing.

They sat here for the better part of the day, listening to the sounds of the forest and sharing past experiences. Arya seemed quite comfortable with the idea of revealing the positive things she experienced in life, and Eragon was all ears. Her story fascinated him, both with its intricate content and the suave and melodious voice that said it. Intertwined, it was a sound more beautiful than any instrument could produce.

"Why does it have to be so painful?" Eragon asked, struggling not to grimace. Even the memory itself seemed painful to him.

"Dwarves developed means of protection against scrying, but they are crude and—as you already know—painful," Arya said, handing the necklace back to Eragon. He accepted it half-heartedly.

"Elves have talismans that they carry on lengthy missions. Their duty is to report to their Master, and the dwarven contraption helped our race greatly with the improvement they have brought."

Arya seemed to notice his reluctance to put back the necklace, for she said. "You should put it on. The second feedback is nowhere near as terrible as the first one, assuming that the one scrying you is a friend."

Eragon sighed and did as she said, more out of trust than preference. Arya's judgment was not to be ignored, especially when it was her intuition that saved his life in Feinster.

"What do you mean?" he asked, equipping the necklace.

"You may not know, but scrying relies on how much magical energy you allow to flow. Since we never use scrying on enemies that wear such talismans, most of the elves deemed such knowledge useless. However, utility and existence are two different things; someone such as Galbatorix could still try to scry you. If that happens, you will know it, but I doubt he will do it."

Eragon raised an eyebrow. "How can you be certain?"

"Scrying has rules, and even with a powerful magic flow, you cannot influence the result. A scrying such as the one I'm talking about will only produce pain to someone wearing a necklace," she said, her attention drawn by a squirrel that quickly climbed a tree.

"That makes sense," Eragon nodded, hiding the necklace beneath the fabric of his tunic. "However, you mentioned something about feedback, and I still don't know why a simple scrying caused me such irritation."

Arya looked at his chest, where the necklace was hidden, then at him "One of the reasons such necklaces are convenient is that they attune to your magic. The initial blast called feedback is the result of the necklace reacting to your magic," she said. "You see, since dwarves feared scrying more than dragons, they tried to invent an absolute protection against it. When you had been scried at the brook, the necklaces drained much of your energy and used it to create a very powerful shield. It is said that the shield created by such necklaces is powerful enough to stop even the most powerful spell, but the reason eludes us. That's why we never found a way to use them in battles. Quite mysterious tools, they are."

"It makes me wonder how the dwarves invented such necklace," Eragon mused.

Eragon felt a sudden presence entering his mind, one that he was most familiar with. Smiling, he got onto his feet. Arya did the same, even if she looked a little bemused.

_We should leave, little one. The currents are favorable and the wind will carry us far_, Saphira said.

_Not until you rest_, Eragon cut her.

_I am rested,_ Saphira insisted. _That's why I'm telling you and Angela to run so we can be off._ Eragon merely complied without asking any other questions. It felt unusual to have Saphira willingly spend time apart from him. In was unnatural, something that never happened before.

"Saphira is back," Eragon said, breaking into a run. "She's well rested and ready for flight, but…" he trailed off.

"What?" Arya asked, jumping over a fallen log.

"Her hunt couldn't take that long," Eragon observed, looking at the sky as if seeking confirmation. "A hunt doesn't take half a day. That means she preferred to spend her time alone…"

"Her body is undergoing certain changes, and her feelings are addled by the desire to reproduce," Arya added bluntly. "You will come to realize that this Saphira can be quite different from the one you are accustomed with. It is something inherited from wild dragons, and their nature cannot be changed, even by the bond you share with her."

Eragon shook his head. "I can't," he said, looking at Arya pleadingly. "Unless I hear it from her, no information matters to me."

Arya's eyes met his, compassion present in the emerald jewels. Her nod alleviated a part of Eragon's rebellious thoughts, and for that, he was grateful.

Knowing where Saphira had landed, Eragon favored Arya one more glance of gratitude before they parted ways.

It wasn't long until Eragon found Saphira. The dragoness landed somewhere near the glen, where Angela would not disturb her. Her body was curled, the tip of her tail touching her snout.

Eragon gulped emptily when the sparkling sapphires made him squint. An alien sensation of doubt sprouted in his mind, the perverse product of his own worries and thoughts of loneliness.

_She's in heat, but she is still Saphira, _Eragon thought, approaching her with more confidence.

As soon as Eragon was close enough, Saphira trudged her body to reach him, her claws raking and pulling dirt behind.

_Little one,_ she said softly, lifting her wing to allow Eragon entrance to his favorite spot. _Deer are plentiful, and the rugged terrain makes them easy to catch. _

Eragon hesitated, but Saphira did not seem to observe his reaction. Her wing was still lifted awkwardly.

_That's good to hear,_ Eragon said, his stare sliding across her wan compared to the rest of the body but clean and beautiful underbelly. _Quite_ _hard to get a decent meal on the plains._

Eragon's mind churned with happiness as he inspected Saphira. She was as beautiful as always. Even if her body and mentality was going through a different stage of her life cycle, she still retained all of her feelings for him. Eragon admired her ivory claws, powerful and muscular haunches, and…

Eragon gulped emptily, his eyebrows raised curiously. His eyes encountered something that he had never seen before. The thought alone brought a smile on his lips, and blood rushed to his cheeks as he realized what he was looking at. It was the one thing that indicated the gender of an animal, or a dragon, in this case.

Eragon's cherry red face was hot by now, and when Saphira lowered her head to look into his eyes, Eragon almost fell on his back.

_Little one?_ Saphira asked, growling softly. _Aren't you going to curl besides me?_

_I—well, I mean, I think…well…, _Eragon slurred his words. Driven by a peculiar sense of curiosity, Eragon glanced at her area once again and shuffled uncertainly towards her front feet.

Saphira craned her neck and nuzzled him lovingly, her snout digging in his chest. _Have you caught a sickness?_ She asked, withdrawing her head slightly.

Eragon felt pierced by her sapphire eyes. He could not possibly lie to her, and although awkward for a human, such question would not sound uncomfortable for a dragon.

_Saphira_, Eragon said awkwardly. _When you were a hatchling, I couldn't tell your gender by…umm…_

Saphira snorted, but did not interrupt him. Eragon felt sweat ooze from every pore of his body, but pressed on.

_Right now, however, I've seen your…_ he paused, moving his arms in patterns even he did not recognize, _and I was wondering why I see it now, and not before._

Saphira arched her neck, reaching with his snout towards her private area. Eragon sighed in relief when she did not respond right away, but continued to watch her. After sniffing her underbelly, Saphira licked her reproduction area gently and then looked at Eragon as if nothing unusual happened.

_Dragons are fierce and reckless in combat. Without a protective flap to guard our most sensitive areas, a battle could hinder a dragon's mating capabilities, and a dragon that cannot mate is useless._

There was harshness and longing in her voice, and unlike the last time she mentioned hatchlings, her feelings were more intense and rampant. Acting on instinct, Eragon crawled under her wing and curled under her belly as Saphira wanted. Humming with satisfaction, Saphira covered him protectively and brought her snout close to him.

_You can always choose a mate, little one, _she said, sadness present in her voice. _You are my partner of mind and soul, but I crave for the company of my kin._

Eragon rubbed her jaw affectionately. _You are going to have mate that will give you hatchlings. I will make sure of it. The other egg…_

Saphira withdrew her head slowly, enough so that their eyes met. _He may never hatch, and I don't want to wait._

Saphira growled harshly, expressing her pain. For a brief moment, she allowed her feelings to flow rampantly through their bond. Unprepared, Eragon's breath stuck in his throat when such depression, pain and sorrow invaded his mind. Only after Saphira restrained her feelings was he able to recover from the shock. By placing an arm on her side, Eragon tried to steady himself, but Saphira suddenly got up. Eragon fell on his back.

_You can choose a mate any time you want, _she said. _I want the same. _

_Saphira, but— _

_Arya, Angela and Solembum can find their Rock of Kuthian without my help. Galbatorix couldn't have slain all the dragons. If we search, we will find them. _

Saphira looked at him pleadingly, her eyes full of confusion and pain. She was aware of how unlikely her words sounded, yet Saphira tried desperately to escape pain and loneliness by any means necessary.

Depressed and totally lost, Eragon got up and hugged Saphira's neck, his hands caressing her scales sympathetically. _As long as Galbatorix lives, dragons will not emerge from their hideouts. _

_You have grown wise, little one, _Saphira nuzzled him lovingly.

_There are many unexplored and safe regions in the Beors, _Eragon said reassuringly. _Maybe the Rock of Kuthian itself is the cave of a dragon._

For the first time since she was in heat, Eragon felt a spark of hope igniting in Saphira. Eragon almost fell on his back when her snout poked him in the chest, a hum of joy vibrating in her throat.

_Let us fly then. The air currents shall whistle under our wings and carry us far this day. _

**What do you think? Unlike the last chapter, I really don't see this one as a filler. For one, the relationship between Arya and Eragon is ready to advance to a new level soon enough. I just need the necessary incentive to do it. Secondly, I liked the scene with Angela a lot, for more than the one obvious reason. Thirdly, Elves are Calling each other! No it's Calling with a capital 'C'! If you don't get it, then... I like that dialogue, and there's some interesting information in there too. Fourthly, the dialogue with Saphira... Oh my, I loved it. **

** New Paragraph for obvious reasons. If you are going to comment on why Eragon stared at her private area, then keep in mind that you do that every day if you have a dog or cat. It's nothing unusual because Saphira is a dragon, not a human, and last time I checked, dogs and cats don't walk around dressed in panties.**  
_  
_


	38. The Storm

Eragon stretched his back in the saddle, bones popping and ligaments stretching as he extended his numb arms to ease the blood flow. Three days of flight without much of a pause—save the extended sleeping breaks, had the habit of afflicting one's body, no matter Eragon's constitution or flying experience.

Saphira hadn't eaten since Arya explained to Eragon why his necklace suddenly began to burn and suffocate him. She appeared restless, despite the fatigue accumulated during her extended flights. Not even his pleas were enough to change her mind or determination to reach Farthen Dur by the end of this day.

"You're not actually a Rider," Angela remarked with indifference. "I've been thinking about this for some time, and you don't match my view of Riders."

"I apologize for not meeting your expectations," Eragon said sardonically. "But I'm glad you at least take your role seriously as an herbalist."

"Whatever," Angela said. "You don't like riding, so you're not a Rider."

"What makes you say that?" Eragon turned around, meeting Angela's playful eyes and annoying smile.

"You seem sore and groan with displeasure more times than I can count," she said, petting Solembum, who yawned and closed his eyes once again.

"You speak like you actually enjoy flying," Eragon teased. "Besides, you're probably in a worse state than I am."

Angela giggled. "My boy, you really don't know me. But I know you better than I wish I would."

Eragon turned around, sighing. A strange fear shot through him like an arrow and dissipated with the same speed. Angela was strange, that much was true, but most of the time, she knew things. Again, Eragon refused to ponder on this matter and basked in the cool afternoon air. They were already flying above the forest stretching at the bottom of the Beors, and the marveling sights were still awe inspiring for Eragon.

There were many mysteries regarding the expanse of the stone giants whose peaks seemed to pierce the sky itself. The dwarves – the native people of this region—said the Gods themselves created the mountains, while the elves removed the veil of this mystery by finding logical explanations. Humans were somewhere in between, with answers varying from region to region depending on the tales passed down by those who ventured into the wild, unexplored valleys.

Eragon was torn in between, having shared a bit of information about every race, including their beliefs. One would think that a person armed with this knowledge would be able to find an answer where many others failed, but he was not the one. He had more important thoughts that burdened his mind, more urgent questions that needed answers, and the creation of the stone behemoths was not one of them.

Still, ever since Saphira crossed the border that led into the heart of the Beor Moutains, Eragon couldn't help but feel a bit uneasy. The mountains gave the region its name, and it was also the mountains that seemed to shape everything according to their own size. Proud fir trees, taller than any others, covered the vast areas at the base of the mountains, providing shadow and concealment for the fearsome beasts which claimed these forests as their own long before the dwarves emerged from the depth of the earth.  
Even the wind seemed to acknowledge the might of the stone kings, often being unpredictable and savage. It was also one of the pressing problems Eragon and his party had to endure, with Saphira being the most affected.

The erratic winds did not only drain the heat of anything they came in contact with, but also interfered with the flight of any being capable of doing so. Eragon was aware of Saphira's faltering strength and made an appropriate suggestion that would solve the predicament of Saphira and those she was carrying on her back. A proper shelter which could be found somewhere in the forest below offered protection from the winds and the promise of rest and recovery. Eragon almost felt his numb body getting warmer even at the thought of a few, burning pieces of wood piled on top of each other.

Eragon's thoughts of warmness and shelter were instantly obliterated as another gust of wind blew from the front, chilling his body almost instantly. The clothing he wore was improper for the changing and unpredictable climate in the mountainous regions. Simple, and without any proper means of keeping the warmth from dissipating from the body of the person who wore it, the plain clothing had many gaps in which the cold could sneak in, robbing any traces of warmth.  
Eragon's body began to shiver. His body was quickly losing warmth, and without any proper protection it had to rely on primitive yet effective methods to prevent hypothermia from settling in.  
Extending a shaky hand, Eragon gripped the neck spike in front of him as the need for extra support became undeniable. Saphira might have been the last one to worry about the cold, but the sheer force of the currents of air tested her strength and balance more than anything.

With the cold making him feel weak and powerless and Saphira's movements which threatened to throw him off the saddle, Eragon couldn't think of a more depressing situation such as this one. Until he looked at the clouds. He thought that the situation he was in was worse until his rebellious eyes turned from the mountain he mindlessly stared to the menacing cloud formations which quickly ate any remains of the clear blue sky. Pushed by those who created the mountains themselves, the grey gobblers expanded their dominance over the sun itself, obscuring any rogue rays of light that attempted to penetrate through the thin, vaporous layers of the less imposing clouds.

Eragon's heart constricted at the menacing shapes that began to dominate the landscape. Mountains appeared to get shortened as their peaks disappeared in the grey, ethereal mist while trees seemed to become as insignificant as mere under bush under the ever-dimming light.  
Opening his mind to Saphira, Eragon was about to share his worries with his partner-of-mind-and-soul, but his train of thoughts was cut short.

Saphira's body lurched heavily, the biting wind manipulating her like a leaf caught in a storm. Eragon felt Arya's tight grip around his waist. Her silky raven hair covered his left cheek, almost obscuring his vision due to the intensity of the wind which acquired an even greater intensity. Arya's apprehension worried Eragon, especially when the forest seemed so small below.  
_  
That's a storm we cannot brave, Arya said, applying even more pressure on Eragon's already aching waist. __Now is not the time to be stubborn, Saphira._

A fierce roar escaped Saphira's maw, her wings beating furiously. _My kin conquered such winds, elf. Speak not like a hatchling.  
__  
Saphira,Eragon intervened, gripping the saddle with strong fingers when another strong gust hit from the side, almost blowing him away. Saphira's body leaned right, the winds too powerful to keep her flight path steady. Eragon's heart skipped a heart beat when Arya yelped in his ear, her body sliding sideways. Moments before something terrible happened, Saphira ascended, resuming her normal position._

_Bring us down, Eragon almost yelled with conviction. Not even he, a Rider, felt secure on her back anymore. __Alone, you may prevail, but you carry four._

_Are you afraid, Eragon? Saphira said with a condemning tone, growling defiantly. Her emotions were shielded from his mind, and Eragon felt a strange chill, more potent and sinister welling inside his body. __Has your faith in my abilities decreased so much?_

_There is no flier that is more skilled than you, but there are fights which—_

_You speak like a land dweller tainted by doubts and fear. Do not underestimate me Eragon, Saphira interrupted._

Lightning forked the sky, the sudden blaze of light reflecting off Saphira's scales. Eragon felt small and insignificant in the presence of such dark, gloomy clouds. The wind lessened in intensity, but instead of approaching the ground, Saphira maintained her current flight path, wings stretched as she glided erratically.

"I was wrong about you," Angela screamed, her shrilling voice alleviating part of Eragon's worries. She handled the storm better than he thought she would. "You are a good Rider, but—"

Eragon heard a roar and a yell, felt winded due to Arya's grip and knew not what almighty force pushed Saphira so hard that she began spinning uncontrollably. Everything was happening too fast, too sudden for his senses to get a grip on what his body perceived. He felt the force of the air pressing against him as an all too familiar rush of air whistled past his body. With his eyes closed due to the frightening speed of the descent, Eragon felt powerless, weak, and afraid. For the first time in a year, he felt afraid for his life, for Arya and Angela's lives.

Even if his body was used to such terrifying speeds, Eragon dared not open his eyes. He knew that Saphira folded her wings and plummeted towards the ground. He trusted her fast judgment, although fear constantly gnawed at his instincts.

Eragon hoped that Saphira would unfurl her wings, soar and glide through their predicament, but that did not happen. She was spinning helplessly, trapped in an unsteadiness from which she could not break free.

Tempted to get a grip on their altitude, Eragon reached with is mind towards the vegetation below. Concentration came slowly to his hazy, confused mind, but Oromis' teachings proved to be quite reliable. What he felt made Eragon scream in terror. The sound was muffled by the wind, but the vivid terror he felt urged him to erect physical wards. They were closer to the ground than he assumed.

Giving in to the impending fear that took control of most of his mind, Eragon began to cast various spells meant to slow their descent. The words were few and the effect was immediate, but as soon as the spells began to take effect, an almighty sensation of dizziness washed over Eragon. Due to his quick, albeit flawed thinking, the spells he used drew all the necessary energy from him rather than other sources, like the forest below. There was plenty of energy at his disposal, yet that single thought did not cross his mind amidst the desperation that took control of him.

Reduced to the state of an empty husk devoid of energy, Eragon instinctively reached for the neck spike in front of him. The leg buckles of the saddle were about to give in due to the force exerted on them, but his hand moved so slow.

His balance was so frail.

The time was so little.

And he ultimately failed.

Losing the battle against the forces of gravity, Eragon's body fell from the saddle like an unsteady sack would from a caravan filled with contents beyond its normal capacity.

The whole situation seemed so surreal, and for a moment Eragon thought that he would be caught by Saphira, just like the many times he fell from her saddle, willingly or unwillingly.  
Weak and powerless, Eragon closed his eyes and awaited the rescue that was about to come.  
But it didn't come. No one would be there to save him this time, and the pain he felt when his body made contact with the first frail branches that made up the trees' canopy was too vivid and too real, until the darkness took him.

Coldness, emptiness and blackness was the realm Eragon treaded in after his dilapidated body fell from the sky. Through branches of all sizes, pine needles and cones he fell, experiencing a pain unlike any other as the forces of gravity and the creations of nature worked together in bringing about that pain. That pain.

This pain.

The pain he felt in this exact moment when a torrent of fiery spikes blazed through the darkness with the speed and the strength of an avalanche. It appeared out of nowhere and it moved fast… too fast for the confused human who had yet to comprehend the strange realm conjured by his mind he was located in. There was blackness, and coldness, and emptiness, and any attempt of escaping from the confinement proved to be not only futile, but tiring as well.

Mental tiredness. Having walked, ran and crawled for more than he could think of in a desperate attempt in finding his way out, the human simply collapsed, crushed by the weight of his mental haziness. It seemed like days since he first stepped into this strange dimension, yet time lost its relevance in a place where everything looked the same. Felt the same. Was the same. Could time be any different in such a place? If it was, would it be measured by the colors of the blackened abyss, the toughness of the smooth floor or the temperature of the chilling wind that cried with its silent whistles?

He did not care, not anymore, at least. After so much time spent in such a simple and depressing environment, the human borrowed so much from the simplicity he was surrounded with that he did not care about anything. Not about the wind, not about the smooth floor and not even about himself. And in no way he cared about the strange, spiky shape that expanded and expanded and engulfed everything in its path until its numerous spikes reached the human and impaled him faster than he could twitch an eyelid.

And then the pain returned.

Releasing a guttural growl of pain, Eragon roused himself from the lethargy that nearly consumed him. The coldness was still there, as well as the voices of the wind that sang in their own, strident language. Such similarities were too real to be processed by Eragon's addled mind, a part of which was still trapped in that twisted realm, feeding him false information about what was real and what was not.

Blinking as if his eyes were under the attack of irritating particles, Eragon looked around incredulously while his hands reacted by themselves, gripping the mass of pine needles and debris that blanketed the soil.

"Stop moving!" an angry voice scolded him. "My herbs are on you, and I expect you to respect them!'

Startled by the voice that came from his exact vicinity, Eragon instinctively turned his head towards of the source of the voice. Long, curly hair, brown eyes and a smile as large and weird as a gnarled bough. That face was something that was impossible for him to forget.

"I'm not…not like…," his fingers twitched, trying to point towards what he thought it was a silhouette, "not like this…that…" Eragon stuttered incomprehensively, unable to coordinate his tongue and the movements of his mouth to form more than a ramble.

"You are not a tree, I know, although I wish you were one. They're less demented and easier to heal."

A pair of slim, yet powerful arms gripped his shoulder and chest, forcing him down in an instant. Eragon coughed at the sudden impact that caused him to choke on his own breath. Looking into Angela's eyes, he gripped her hand and opened his mouth to speak before another unexpected arrival interrupted his actions.

A cat leaped out of nowhere, landing right on his chest. Flexing his other hand, Eragon was about to remove the intruder through the use of a primitive, yet effective method, but the cat reacted before he could. With those glimmering amber eyes staring into his, that loud, terrible hiss he just released and those tiny, yet pointed fangs being so close to his throat, Eragon felt scared and insignificant. His eyes glimmered like the sun, and Eragon felt his mind burning.

"Don't do that!" Angela screamed, gently picking up Solembum from Eragon's body. "That salve is precious and Eragon's mind is distant."

Eragon looked at the woman, then at the cat, then at the woman who began to affectionately stroke the cat's dense fur while pointing and gesturing with her hand towards his body. It didn't make any sense.

As if she was aware that she owed him an explanation, Angela placed Solembum on her lap and rummaged through her basket until she pulled out a bit of linen drenched in greenish colored juices.

"You poor demented thing," she said, then slapped the canvas onto Eragon's face. Taken by surprise and robbed of his ability to breathe properly, Eragon tried to remove her arms in a fit of panic. His faltering strength and weak muscles were hardly his allies, however, and without brute force he couldn't remove the cloth that obscured his vision and forced him to inhale whatever substances that were absorbed in its fabric. After a couple more failed attempts, the sense of lethargy began to settle in until his mind was wrapped in darkness yet again.

**I usually add something meaningful about the chapter here, but this time, I'm just going to say that more explanations are going to follow. Yes, Eragon is not in his best mental shape, but before you ask me why the description and everything seems weird, think about how much energy Eragon used for wards and other magic and the way he dropped from Saphira's saddle.**


	39. Treatment

Strangely, the sensation of cold seemed only a distant memory, replaced by a bizarre, radiating warmness. After the permeating chill retracted its grip, the whole chamber began to undergo significant changes which Eragon couldn't comprehend. It all began with the darkness that suddenly came to life in the form of black smoke which steadily rose upwards, towards a source of light which wasn't previously there. How light got through the pitch black ceiling was a mystery, but Eragon gave no thought about it. The intense source was so mesmerizing, so alluring. Feeling an unnatural urge to reach it, Eragon extended his hand upwards as if he wanted to grab a part of it in his own palm.

The light suddenly exploded into a blinding, incandescent sphere. The hand which Eragon extended was now acting as a shield, protecting his darkness accustomed vision from the all-too-bright sphere. But it wasn't enough. The light penetrated through his arm like arrows made of burning light, pitting its pure strength against the arm which stubbornly refused to let it pass.

It got so warm in such a short period of time, and Eragon was forced to shut his eyes. The light was too intense, and the heat matched that intensity. A scream was released—a wail of both pain and terror. He was not certain of it because his vision was obscured by the protective eyelids before he could catch a better glimpse of it, but that short moment was enough for him to see. His arm suddenly lost its shape and opacity, acquiring a smoke-like texture that allowed the light to freely pass through. The feeling was even weirder, and, if it wasn't for the smoke that made the air un-breathable, Eragon would have screamed as hard as his lungs would have allowed.

With a loud cough, Eragon freed himself from the shackles that were binding him to the strange dream world he spent so much time into. Blinking instinctively a few times, he wasn't sure if he was truly free from the peculiar dimension he was beginning to get accustomed to.  
There was still darkness in the direction he was facing, albeit colored darkness. Amidst the branches loaded with pine needles that conglomerated into a unitary whole, a few specks of grey could be spotted through the tiny holes that weren't obscured by the vegetation.  
Was this enough of a proof that his mind and body alike were truly unfettered? No… it couldn't be. The smoke—the same smoke he inhaled earlier—was still present, trailing its ethereal tails above his head before the wind opened another path which it would travel.

Eragon coughed again, a loud, drawn out cough that threatened to expel even the last breath from his lungs. So deceiving this smoke was. One wouldn't need to see it and avoid it to feel its effects.

Feeling a desperate need for fresh air, Eragon turned his head to the side. When that happened, two things were instantly revealed to him: why the sensation of cold ceased bothering him for a while, and, more precisely, the reason why that happened.  
It was because of the fire. A small heap of crushed branches and other materials that were piled up not even an arm's length away from his body. Eragon gasped due to the proximity of the fire and extended a hand to extinguish it. It was an instinctual action and, although foolish, it wouldn't have any grave repercussions. The fire was small and pathetic—and it was a miracle that it was even burning—and could easily be put off by anything wider than its diameter.

"I wouldn't suggest turning against your allies," said the voice that preceded the hand which gripped Eragon's wrist, immobilizing his hand in the process.

"Allies?" Eragon asked in utter confusion.

"They're around you, caressing you with their warmth," the voice replied back. "And…" the voice slowly drifted off. The voices of the nature replaced the woman's calm tone: the burning twigs burned with a few quiet cracks while the wind carried its messages between the branches of the trees, which moved and rustled in a steady rhythm.

Eragon remained silent. He was not sure what to think about the peculiar treatments this woman—Angela—was practicing on him after such a tiring mental journey, but he had to admit that he felt much better than the last time he opened his eyes. It was hard to believe, but maybe the treatments were working.

A strange hissing sound reached Eragon's ears. Curious about this strange occurrence, Eragon lifted his head, only to be brought down by Angela's insistent grip.

"It's almost ready," Angela said excitedly.

"What's ready?" Eragon asked on a low voice.

"Patience," Angela said.

"I think you've said that before, but… I feel much better now, and-"

"A healer's decisions are not to be questioned, my boy," Angela said, her eyebrows frowning slightly. "A whole basket of herbs, my favorite mushrooms, and a lot of time spent. That is the cost of your recovery," she added sternly.

"I—I remember I fell, and…" Eragon said with uncertainty, still unsure of what exactly happened after he was parted from Saphira.

Angela sighed. "That's probably not enough."

Eragon wanted to question her yet again, but the force of the grip she applied on his forehead spoke for itself. Turning her attention away from him, Angela grabbed something in her hand.

"You may not like this kind of tea," she said, lifting a small, milling vase on the level of her shoulder.

Eragon looked at it with apprehension, but didn't do anything—not even voice his opinions—because he knew that Angela was right, and more than that, she knew what she was doing.  
Following the vase in quiet contemplation, Eragon had a sudden revelation about its contents. He couldn't see, but he knew that there was some kind of liquid in it when Angela began to slowly turn it to the left, allowing the contents to fall from its semi-circular support.

Then, before the first bit had the opportunity to leave the vase, Angela quickly rotated it so it wouldn't spill a drop. Then, she removed her hand from Eragon's forehead.

"Beggar's cape… how could I forget that?" She said hastily, passing the vase to her other hand while she lunged to grab something.

"I thought you were—" Eragon said. He tried to get up, but a low and familiar hiss made him change his mind.

"You may not think so, but beggars have their own role in our world. From the time they are abandoned as small children, they crawl into damp, dirty places until they receive the necessary nutrients from what nature has to offer. Then, they sprout tall and wide, covering everything with their embrace!"

Eragon remained dumbfounded. He saw many beggars, but none of them had any capes. More than that, they were the bane of any society and they certainly did not exert any kind of influence over anything—save for the dirty alleys they chose to settle in.

Busying himself with Angela's riddle, Eragon did not even have the time to react when a round, giant shape was brought above his head, obscuring his vision with its imposing stature. Opening his mouth to either talk – or gasp, as no word came out—Eragon didn't realize that he became the victim of his own stupidity, for in the next moment, a torrent of liquid fell on his face with the force and density of a river. It fell everywhere: on his face, in his eyes, in his nose, and most importantly, straight into his mouth.

"It's called Beggar's cape because it gathers water like no other mushrooms, but releases it without much of an effort when you put pressure on it," Angela said between Eragon's coughing. Then, she stuck part of the mushroom into Eragon's mouth.  
"Eat. It will do you good."

Releasing another faint cough, Eragon removed the mushroom from his mouth with a lightning-quick move and breathed deeply. His face was cherry red due to the lack of oxygen, and, if the mushroom would have denied his right to breathe for a bit longer, it could have killed him. It was a mushroom, but one which Eragon has rarely seen. Not only that it had a very elastic and hard-to-munch texture, but it was gigantic, and its purpose was definitely not to act like a normal vegetable, but as an instrument used for killing.

Taking a second breath, Eragon started to recover. Or so he thought, as something hot and liquid fell on his belly, spreading quickly across his body and up to his neck.  
Groaning in pain, Eragon attempted to get up, roll over, do anything to allow the ichors to fall from his body.

"Give it a bit of time!" Angela screamed, pinning Eragon's body with both of her arms.

"Gmmmm," Eragon grunted as he trashed his body. Whatever Angela has poured onto him, it burned with a strange, icy sensation that was almost impossible to endure.

"It will pass, you moaning kitten—"

"Ghaah! It won't!" Eragon screamed, still trying to break free. "Circular wind blast!"

Weaving the words together with a bit of his strength, Eragon resorted to one last choice that would allow him to get rid of the pain.

A fraction of a moment after he uttered the last word, a sudden force blasted the debris around Eragon's body into the air while the fires were instantly put out. Both the woman and her cat were pushed in opposite directions, leaving only a cascade of fallen pine needles, cinder, and well swept soil around Eragon.

"Don't deny my ways of healing!" Angela began to rant. "I have wasted half a basket of herbs, a handful of my favorite mushrooms…" she continued, naming a whole list of plants which were easily going past Eragon's ears.

Eragon did not get up right away. The spell he used weakened his already damaged body considerably by draining the few bits of energy it disposed of. To make things worse, the painful, burning substance Eragon was so keen in getting rid of diminished its effect considerably—just like Angela said it would.

Scolding himself in his mind for yet another unwise decision he took, Eragon attempted to get up. Using both his hands as support, he halfway managed to do it until the slight tremors that annoyed him grew in intensity.

Falling back on the ground, Eragon clutched his chest with his arms. His bare chest. There was a layer of plants and other fluids covering it, but he could feel his skin through them.  
The forest floor was also very uncomfortable, pine needles and small branches poking his back like blunt tipped daggers. These sensitive factors combined with a few words of Angela's angry ramblings – something about wearing what nature has gifted him with—worked together to reveal the predicament Eragon was in: he was completely naked.

Through the use of a well-placed apology and a couple of words to get on Angela's good side, Eragon obtained all what he wanted—his clothes and guidance in finding the place Arya and Saphira were. Whether they were injured or not after they fell from the sky was a mystery even Angela couldn't solve— an assumption made by Eragon when peculiar thoughts ceased to be produced by her mind and voiced out by her mouth.

Eragon did not complain, however, even if worries stabbed at his mind like newly formed icicles: they would only last until they would melt away. He could not do anything until he will be reunited with them anyway, and, for the moment, Eragon focused on what he could do, something which did not lack certain limitations. By relaying on Solembum's sense of smell to reveal the way, Eragon's pace could only be as fast as the one imposed by Angela, and the herbalist was anything but agile.

A small detail such as this one was more hurtful and annoying than the cold or the pain he experienced earlier, but Eragon could not do anything about it except silently complaining inside the confines of his mind. Complain, because he was at fault as well. No matter how hard he tried, he could not get into Saphira's mind.

"How many of the Riders were sages or librarians?" Angela suddenly asked.

Eragon became so used to the chanting of the wind that he almost lost his balance when Angela's strident voice disturbed the tranquility.

"I-I don't know," Eragon replied uncertainly, trying to remember one of the many lessons he had learned from Oromis about the history of the Riders. "Not many, I would say."

"I tend not to agree with many of the statements, suggestions, or anything that involves thinking when it comes from you," Angela replied dryly, "but there could be a tiny seed of truth in the words you spoke with such unfaltering conviction."

"But such position wouldn't suit you, no," Angela continued. "I would see you as an apprentice more than anything else, a deserving position for one such as you."

"An apprentice?" Eragon sneered. "No Rider who went through such rigorous training would fall so low to carry boxes of scrolls, light candles or rummage through piles of paper to ease the work who study them in the first place."

Angela suddenly started to laugh. "You speak like that because you do not know how many of these wizened, movement-crippled sages need that kind of aid.

"You speak nonsense," Eragon cut in.

"And you have plenty of that in your foggy mind. Wisdom is for the intellect like dry soil is for a mushroom; it contains nutrients, but absorbing them is not enough as long as water is absent."

Eragon heard Angela's witty comeback, but refused to speak. Ever since they departed from the shady place where he had been treated by the herbalist, Eragon was the constant victim of her random rambling, and there was not much he could do about it. If he remained silent, he was accused of being in a foul mood, ungrateful, or a bad traveling companion. If he spoke, on the other hand, he would be frowned upon as being too agile of tongue and too loud and annoying. Whatever action Eragon chose to take, Angela was there to lay siege on Eragon's mind with her arsenal of witty comments of hers.

As the time passed and fatigue slowly started to settle in, the trio of travelers became more and more silent until not a single word was uttered between them. There were factors that could be blamed for draining even the high spirits Angela was in, but the darkness and the gloomy atmosphere affected Eragon the most.

Every once in a while, Eragon would cast a look at the sky. There was little to be seen among the branches of the trees which appeared to intertwine with each other, forming a living blanket of wood and pine needles that protected the land below with its shadow. But, as any old, tattered blanket, this one was not missing different-sized punctures.

From between the tiny lookout holes, parts of the darkened sky could be seen. The clouds lost the shapes that made them look different, merging into an even mix that bore the same color, a gray latched with scarce nuances of a faint, almost grey violet.

Any traces of the sun he saw before he fell from Saphira's back vanished, and Eragon knew that it wouldn't be long before the night would settle upon the land. A cold, damp, rainy night he did not look forward to.

The cracking of the small twigs and the foliage that littered the hardened soil came to an abrupt end when a gust of wind brought the distinctive scent of fresh blood. The pungent smell was strong enough to be felt even by Eragon, a sign that whatever happened, the creature whose blood was spilled was not far.

A numbing chill washed over his body when his mind drifted to Saphira for a short moment. What if the scent he smelled earlier belonged to the blood that was spilled when she fell from the sky? She could be there, somewhere in the forest, bearing great wounds.

"S—Saphira?" Eragon coughed violently, placing a hand over his mouth and nose. He was almost on the verge of releasing the few contents his stomach carried.

"I cannot say, dear," said Angela, walking over to Solembum. "Only he can."

Coughing one more time, Eragon turned his tear filled eyes to the herbalist that kneeled beside Solembum, watching him with a worried expression. Looking back into her eyes, the werecat brushed his head against hers affectionately, releasing a soft growl shortly after.

A wide smile appeared on Angela's face. "It's not dragon blood the thing we're smelling, dear boy, but that does not mean Saphira isn't a bit ruffled after she exchanged the ethereal currents for the stability of the earth."

"Can you tell me where she is?" Eragon asked faintly.

"Somewhere near that mountain," Angela replied, gesticulating towards the base of a nearby mountain. "Follow your instincts, like Solembum does."

**A bit too heavy on description, but I decided to follow what I started in the last chapter and not do an awkward transition. For good, or for the worse, I can't decide. This chapter hasn't contributed a lot to the story, but Eragon's healing is an important matter, especially when Angela is the one to take care of it.**


	40. It's the water

Katrina maneuvered the thick wooden stick with fast, vigorous movements through the thick maize porridge. The cauldron trembled slightly under her circular motion, the golden mixture often bubbling. Katrina winced when a bubble of scalding mixture exploded, a part of its content finding its way on her soft arm. Cursing softly, she reached towards a tattered, greasy canvas that rested on a nearby table and wiped her arm clean.

The porridge churned, spitting a part of its content into the hot, dry air occasionally. Pleased with its consistency, Katrina removed the wooden stick from the cauldron and placed it on the table, sighing. Cooking began to tire her lately, but more than that, it was the absence of her husband that troubled her. Roran's departure sapped her strength and will to work, and even though the promise of his return eased her heartache, she was still tired and lonely.

"Curse you Nasuada," Katrina whispered under her breath, using the same dirty cloth to wipe the sweat that cluttered on her brow and red cheeks. The metal support which nested a fiery blaze radiated heat. The scorching temperature in the kitchen was almost unbearable, but Katrina was used to it. The pleasure she extracted from cooking helped her overcome the physical discomfort, and the rewarding end of her meals made her heart swell with joy. But Roran wasn't here. He wouldn't eat what she was preparing for him.

_Not yet,Katrina tried to soothe herself. If dedicating herself to cooking helped her reminisce the pleasant moments spent with her husband, then so it would be._

With dexterous movements and visible expertise, Katrina grabbed a large piece of cheese, cut a large chunk of it using a knife and placed it on a wooden platter. Then, she wrapped her right hand with the cloth and removed the cauldron with the bubbling porridge from the stove, yelping due to the heated metal handle.

Katrina sighed. The content of the cauldron would slowly chill and toughen, now that it rested on the stone surface next to the oven. The platter was clean and the cheese parted. Her task was done. The only missing piece in this depressing, forlorn room was a husband that sat at the table, gorging on the food prepared by his loving wife.

For a moment, Katrina stared at the table, reminiscing about the perfect times spent with her husband. She poured her sweat and love into cooking, and Roran's gratitude was all that she needed to work another day. For their family, Katrina had the stamina to do anything.

_No eyes narrowed, and realization suddenly struck her. Roran was returning from his mission and he wouldn't like her food without fresh vegetables accompanying the meal. He loved vegetables._

Mumbling something incoherently under her breath, she rushed towards the bedroom with jittery steps. The clean tan carpet muffled the thumps of her steps. Only her soft displeasures disturbed the silence as Katrina maneuvered her body through the partly open door.

The room she entered was tidy and clean—Katrina had enough time at her disposal to impress her husband with what she knew best. However, there was no time to admire the uncluttered bed and sheets, or the clean rugs and dustless tapestries and nightstands. Katrina shuffled towards an armoire where most of her dresses were kept and removed a faded green one.

After removing her dirty, sweat covered tunic and leggings and discarding them in a corner, Katrina equipped the dress and shuffled towards the exit of the house.

The silky dress swished and bended in the wind, the silky material rippling and gluing on her legs. Katrina closed her eyes, inhaling the cool, moist morning air for a moment.

"You die, Eragon!" The high pitched yell sent shudders through Katrina's body. Confused, with her heart thumping in her chest, she turned around slowly. A sigh escaped her when she saw a street urchin not too far away from her, pointing a wooden stick at a defeated, helpless child.

"It's not fair!" Katrina winced and brought a hand to her face at the sound of sticks clashing against each other. "Why do you have to be Galbatorix all the time?"

"Because he is far stronger," the urchin scoffed and landed a blow on the child's leg. Whimpering in pain, he began massaging the sore area while the other child removed his stick and began landing blows at an invisible enemy. His display of prowess hadn't gone unnoticed, for the other child scrambled onto his feet and dashed away, sobbing.

Katrina frowned at such behavior, but such battles were nothing new to her. Ignoring what she had just seen, she continued her trek through the narrow alley between houses. The pungent smells of urine mixed with dirt and rotten food made her face wrinkle with disgust. Beggars often used the protection provided by the stone structures against elements and they often slept, lived and defecated wherever they wanted.

The swiftness in Katrina's pace was just a spark of the disgust and fear that blazed inside her. The dirty, disheveled figures stared at her like predators, and some had even lunged at her in their insanity. Roran always pushed them back, hitting and throwing them where they belonged. But now, she was alone.

"Do' ru' fro' me 'ady." Katrina yelled when something grabbed her ankle and instinctively jerked her foot, hitting the man who clutched her foot in the chin. What she thought it was a pile of ragged clothes turned to be a human, and now, the same beggar tried to get onto his unsteady legs, cursing and mumbling incoherent words.

Katrina ran, and her heart raced her fast steps in its frantic beating. The tight, reeking alley soon gave way to a path. Katrina continued to run despite her aching limbs and labored breath. The few people who avoided her glared and shouted foul words at her, but even then, she didn't stop.

_Where are you Roran?Katrina thought, her sprint coming to a stop. Panting heavily, she placed a hand on a nearby house for support. Dizziness and nausea threatened to take over, and her limbs began shaking softly. Katrina closed her eyes and tried to regulate her sporadic breath. She needed to calm herself. There was no danger following her. She was completely safe._

Due to her mental discipline and self control, her body slowly began to recuperate. Her vision was clear again and the ill feeling vanished from her system. Katrina sighed in relief and adopted a straight posture, gulping emptily. She was Roran's wife. People needed not to associate her image with weakness for the sake of her husband. For Roran, she had to be strong and courageous, and the wide paths thumped under the feet of the many that swarmed through Feinster.

Dust gave way to chipped cobblestone when Katrina reached one of the main roads. She stopped for a moment, looking around. The clanging of a few hammers provided a small irritation in contrast with the importance of rebuilding Feinster, but unlike the other days, only few were carrying planks of wood, hitting nails with the hammer or helping the others.

No carts trudged their wheels down the road, no horse whinnied and every men or women seemed to watch the others warily. Clutters of people whispered among themselves, some looking at the ground thoughtfully while others raising their voice and gesturing at something only they were aware of.

Katrina moistened her lips apprehensively and tidied her dress before she ventured into the crowd. Her eyes glanced at the groups of people as she passed by them, her ears trying to catch the faintest clue about the subject of mysterious discussions. The noise was too prominent, however, and the ringing of hammers was not an ally to her plight.

After a short walk, Katrina finally reached the rim of the marketplace. Nothing seemed unusual compared to the past few days. The ever-present crowd of hungry people still waited for their turn at a hearty meal provided by several curious merchants, some others were still waiting for a buyer that would never come in the distance and many just passed by, impassive and solemn as ever.

A groan coming from somewhere nearby roused Katrina's awareness. Turning around, her alert eyes met the gnarled figure of a boy who clutched his belly tightly, a continuous guttural groan rumbling in his throat. His face was contorted with pain, and the man and woman around him talked among themselves, occasionally pointing at the boy.

Struck by a perverse sense of curiosity, Katrina shambled towards them.

"It's the water, that's why so many sick," the man said.

The woman ran a hand through her hair, a look of desperation on her face. "Care what it is not! Cure for Aldo, that matter!"

Katrina tidied up her dress. These people barely knew how to talk, but the fear and worries that coated their voices made her feel uneasy. The image of the boy in pain amplified her distress, and before she knew it, Katrina stepped forward and betrayed her presence.

"What want?" the man asked. His skinny face and deep dark eyes unnerved Katrina, but she kept her calm.

"I know a healer. Her name is Gertrude and—"

"No healer because no money!" the man shouted, motioning her to leave.

The woman's reaction was even more unusual. With stark green eyes, she glared at her and then began to mumble something angrily before taking the boy's hand and leaving in a hurry.

Words tried to make their way through Katrina's lips, but the barrier did not allow them passage. Katrina couldn't help but feel responsible for the boy's pain and suffering. Her reply had forced the ones she believed to be his parents to leave in great hurry. Their motives were a mystery to her, and regret is fleeting, especially when her husband was more important than a stranger.

Sighing, Katrina rolled on her feet and moved with uncertain steps towards what she thought was the stall with the vegetables. There weren't many people on the road, and the group of hungry ones waiting for a meal was now behind her. Still, the groups of people she passed by continued to lure her attention more effectively, now that she witnessed the pain of that boy. The man said something about the water, sprouting unnecessary worries in Katrina's already troubled mind.

"…the water." Katrina stopped. The words were faint, but still clear enough to understand their meaning. Confused, but with her interest piqued by the unusual worries of more than one people, Katrina tidied her dress and moved towards a group of people that sat near an empty stall. Her eyebrows met into a frown when she realized that one of them was sitting on the wooden frame destined for goods, not for people, his legs crossed and hands intertwined below his beardless chin.

"I don't know Fran," a small, scrawny man dressed in black said. "It's unusual. Too many sick." He was walking in circles constantly, his fingers knitted together tightly.

"It has to be the water. I heard it happened before." The tall and imposing man who spoke with a deep voice was definitely a guard. His muscular frame was clad in clean, polished armor, a rare acquisition for one among the Varden.

"Lady!" Katrina did not know how to react, and her eyes immediately looked elsewhere. What could she tell these men? That she was not a healer, but could send them to one?

"Lady, you have to help us." His voice seemed closer now, and Katrina almost froze when she found herself face to face with the short and skinny man.

"I…I can't," she stuttered, despite her best attempts to sound convincing. "I know a healer, Gertrude—"

"Come," the man beckoned her to follow with fast, desperate motions. Sighing, Katrina obeyed. She felt slightly uncomfortable when she realized that she became the target at which everyone stared at—including the man sitting on the wooden frame. Katrina smiled meekly as she looked at each of them in return, expressing her pleasure to meet them. The other men nodded in acquaintance without sharing any words.

"She is a healer," the one who lured her into this said.

"Well?" The man on the elevated position demanded, his dark eyes scanning her with indifference and superiority. "What is the cause of Feinster's mild discomfort?"

"I'm…not sure," Katrina stuttered. Her perplexed mind was clogged due to apprehension, and no convincing lies emerged.

"Maybe it's not a single factor…" she trailed off.

"It's the water." Fran—the man who was sitting on the wooden frame- dropped to his feet and dusted off his clean brown tunic. Unlike the one who forced her to join them, Fran radiated coolness, close to arrogance. His clean ruffled hair and austere green eyes gave him an intimidating appearance. The man was intelligent, a trait that posed a great menace to Katrina.  
Lying to a distressed fool was one thing, but toying with Fran was a different dish.

"The lady here can confirm us," he said, analyzing her with the same stare that almost made Katrina shudder. "That's what healers do, confirm what we already know."

Fran pressed his last words, the tone of his voice revealing what Katrina interpreted as a subtle spite. Unnerved, with her previous confidence and curiosity numbed by this man's presence, Katrina tried to do what was necessary. Parting her lips, a confirmation almost escaped her before an arm clenched around her wrist.

"Come with us," the jittery man requested. However, it was more of a demand, for Katrina's feet practically intertwined in her maladroit shamble when the man pulled her away with a jerk of his arm. "No matter the water, the food or the gods themselves, there are people you have to heal."

"Easy, Mardo," the guard with the deep voice intervened. "Don't pull a lady as if she is a cart."

Katrina felt the pressure on her wrist lessening, but the grip did not falter. Sweat moistened her delicate hands, and she felt hot and constricted in her large green dress. Mardo threw a quick glance at her wrist, but said nothing as he continued to lead her away from the marketplace.

The group of men was unusually silent. The lack of words allowed Katrina to hear the groans of pain coming from the people they passed by, or observe the apathy that suddenly engulfed the Varden. The roads were almost clear, for most people kept to the sides or chattered idly near a house or a distant stall.

Katrina glanced nervously at each stranger, her swift fearful eyes never settling on one of them. She felt apprehensive and calm at the same time. The desperate man assumed she was a healer, so he probably followed his instincts that were manipulated by panic combined with lack of knowledge. They were good people, albeit crude at diplomacy.

"It's not long walk," Mardo said reassuringly, "and we need a healer."

Katrina smiled faintly, her fake attempt to calm Mardo proving quite effective. The man relinquished his grip and increased his pace until he was in front of everyone.

"Shouldn't a healer always carry an herb pouch?"

Katrina shuddered violently. The clatter of metal against stone tricked her senses, and Fran's proximity was less than she expected. The man was practically breathing on her neck.

"I was going to the market to—"

"Aren't you supposed to be prepared at any given time?" he inquired.

Katrina barely refrained from glancing at him with the corner of his eyes, but his very presence unnerved her. Roran often spoke of men and how vile they can be when tricked, and Fran's aloof attitude would not allow her to earn his trust.

"What is a healer without herbs, or healing reagents?" Fran said smoothly. "Books, we have enough, and knowledge is fleeting and unreliable. Unless it manifests physically, we have a dilemma, healer."

"Fran, show the lady some respect!" The soldier scowled thunderously. "I'd rather hear her elevated explanation on this matter."

"Ah, Lehmontecte," Fran drawled, seeking some escape from his boredom. "Independence of opinion comes hard when a wrong word sends you to the whipping post."

"Shh, too many words," Mardo complained and pointed towards a decrepit and small dwelling that resembled a cottage. "Indulge people with deeds, not promises, that be what my father said."

The soldier shrugged, impassive to Fran's taunting. He was stoic and firm of thought, almost like Roran.

"They boiled the water as I suggested, I presume," Fran added unworriedly. "If they didn't, the lady healer herself is not going to save those fools."

Mardo seemed lost in his thoughts, for he completely disregarded Fran's remark. Instead, he dashed towards the building and pushed the door aside forcefully, sneaking inside faster than a rat in the kitchen.

Nervous and still uncertain of the people's irrational request, Katrina tidied her dress when Lehmontecte, the soldier, looked at her with the corner of his eyes.

"It's only sick people," he said, almost soothingly. "Nothing unusual for you, eh?"

Katrina smiled weakly.

_We'll see,she thought. When she reached the door, however, the acrid smell made her stomach lurch and turn upside down._

"After you," Lehmontecte beckoned politely, opening the door for her.

**What did you think? Surprising eh? You probably have more questions than answers in this chapter, but the following ones are going to get better.**


	41. Tea for Many

Wails of pain, coughs, silent and loud voices alike came from inside the small wooden structure that stood before Katrina.  
_  
It's only sick people. Nothing unusual for you, eh?_ The guard's words rang inside her mind, repeating themselves over and over again like a strange, reassuring chant.

There were only a few sick people that needed her aid. Nothing more than that. Still, Katrina's knowledge trembled inside her head, and she felt insecure and afraid. Helping these people was something she could not do, and she had to come to terms with herself, both to reassure her faltering resolve and to enforce the power of her deception.

Tricking people was not new to her, and the people that supposedly required help could probably go through their suffering without her. They were not similar to the war victims whose screams of pain were as sharp and vibrant as the blood that oozed from their wounds. They were just sick people who must likely suffered from drinking the bad water mentioned by the guards.

An onrush of choking odor rushed out of the house as soon as the door was opened. Katrina covered her mouth and nose with the fabric of her dress. The gagging sensation was hard to resist, and a single cough could betray her inexperience in curing the sick to those who brought her here. Tears began to accumulate in Katrina's eyes the longer she tried to suppress the coughs, the retching sensation that clawed at her throat It eventually came out, despite her valiant attempts at containing it.

"It smells worse than a gutted pig," Mordo complained between coughs.

Most of the words were lost to Katrina among the noise made by the inhabitants of the wooden house. Focusing on other matters was hardly possible when the need of air was so urgent.

"Use your mouth to breathe," Fran said, clenching his hand on Katrina's shoulder. "You will get used to it."

Katrina winced and grimaced slightly, but the man who moved in front of her shook his head slightly. In order to alleviate his suspicions, Katrina had to stand the smell and pretend to be a real healer. The people of Carvahall shared stories about sick people attacking their own healer to extract vengeance when they could, and some unfortunate villagers even died.

The thought hit her harder than the pungent smell. Katrina could see signs of desperation in the sluggish movement of a man, or hear it in the sick cough of a boy.

"Gather all the herbs and oils you have and bring them to the lady," commanded Fran. "She knows."

"Is she sick?" a rough, manly voice asked.

Katrina clenched her fists when he noticed the menace present in Fran's glare.

"She cures the ones who are sick."

"Healer!" a woman shouted.

"Is… the healer," the frail voice of a young boy joined in.

The cottage surmounted the dreary silence and immediately filled with praise and requests, questions and demands, all directed towards Katrina.

"You've brought hope to them," Fran sneered in Katrina's ear. "Now, don't disregard their pleas."

Katrina felt her legs unsteady. When she glanced downwards, she realized she was shaking. Fortunately for her, the weakness and the nausea that washed over her when she entered the house lessened their strength considerably.

"Come, come," a lady dressed in dirty white rags offered her hand to her. "I take you to the sick."

"I will come," Katrina said after her hand was gripped with alacrity by the impatient woman when she did nothing. She was not much older than Katrina. Her raven hair was showed no gray, the mark of a human's withering, but her worn-out face betrayed the trials and the difficulties she passed through.

"This is my son," she said, leading Katrina to a young boy who took refuge in a corner, his hands clutched around a small, black iron cauldron that dangled on the floor, swishing ominously under the boy's weight . Katrina looked at the cauldron curiously, wondering about its purpose.

"Healer to Gangvar!" A distinctive woman voice shouted. "Gangvar more sick and almost die. In need of cure!"

"Woman, come here."

Katrina looked in the direction from where the weak, raspy voice came from. In a bed situated near the wall of the room, an ebony-skinned man lay in dusty sheets. His right hand – which hanged out of the bed – twitched and trembled as it tried to point towards her.

"NO!"

Katrina felt her hand squished under the force of the grip that held it like a predator would its prey. Turning her head around, the woman looked in Katrina's eyes, desperation present on her face.

"My boy is young and very sick. Help him first!" She said and dragged Katrina towards the boy in the corner without allowing her the freedom of choice.

"No, no!" The other woman screamed and ran towards Katrina, her thunderous pace causing the wooden boards to tremble and shake.

"I cannot cure anyone if you don't tell me what made them sick!" Katrina said angrily, her voice almost being on par with that of the two distressed women.

"It's the water, you damn woman," Fran cut in harshly. "Treat, that's why you are here!"

His loud voice almost caused Katrina's heart to constrict due to fear.

"It may be the war Fran," a low, shaky voice said. "The dead linger on the land still."

Secluded in a corner, with dirty clothes thrown all over them, three elderly men sat on wooden stools. They were not old enough to display the characteristic silvery braids of hair that come with the proper age, but they were older than anyone in the room. Their gnarled faces were a window to their past, and the uncared beards and long mustaches coupled with a few scars were giving them an intimidating appearance.

"Listen not."

Tightening her grip even harder, the woman was determined to bring Katrina to her child.

"I will come! Just release my hand!" Katrina screamed, releasing the squeezing fear inside her through the booming words. The silence that coated the room instilled a sinister sense of calmness in her numb and uncooperative body.

"You are demented," Fran said bitterly, rushing towards the door. "Both you and the healer." After pointing a condemning finger at the old men and Katrina, Fran stormed through the door. The loud smashing sound that followed made the little boy tremble. The cauldron rattled slightly, its round bottom leaning lazily towards left or right, according to the boy's will.

"Rude and stupid fellow," the same old man complained from his resting position. "The dead attack the living. The war never stopped claming lives."

He coughed several times, then continued. "It now wants ours."

"Come!"

Katrina followed the jittery woman to the boy with the cauldron and then motioned her to leave in a manner Gertrude used to get rid of pestering company. Much to her surprise, the woman nodded slowly, fearfully, and turned around, shuffling towards the elder men.

Before continuing, Katrina shook her head to clear her mind of the ominous words and kneeled beside the petite figure.

"I drank much water," he cooed, looking up at her with blurred, bloodshot eyes. "Mother says water is good."

Katrina drew back slightly when she noticed a strange, slimy substance coating his mouth. The foul odor coming from the cauldron made her stomach lurch, and Katrina slyly pulled the texture of the dress to her nose to alleviate the nausea that threatened to take over.

"Maybe not the water." Her words were muffled by the silky material, and Katrina increased her voice instead of crawling away from the source of the smell, no matter the urge her instincts pressed on her.

"The food. It was so good," he sniffled, wiping his mouth with the grime and soggy texture of the linen shirt that covered his body. "I wanted to be a merchant, as kind as the ones who gave us all food."

"You will," Katrina said uncertainly, looking at him compassionately. His dirt caked face was contorted, and no smile brightened his gloomy expression. Unlike the children Katrina met, this boy was the embodiment of pain and suffering.

"You… will."

Suddenly, an idea occurred to her. The boy looked at her as she got up, and then stared back into the cauldron, lost in the vortex of its foul contents.

Katrina tidied her dress and coughed slightly, beckoning at the same woman who brought her here.

"Show me to the kitchen, and bring the herbs," she said with authority, looking at her sternly. "I will concoct a healing poultice for the boy and the rest."

The woman nodded with renewed vigor and grabbed the bundle of herbs. "Riders praise you, healer," she said, pointing at a door that probably led to the kitchen.

Katrina gulped emptily and followed her. She felt no guilt or remorse for what she was doing, but when hope ignited inside the woman that appeared more tattered than a ragged tunic, Katrina felt her stomach knot, her head dizzy due to apprehension. Because of her, the woman regained her smile, and because of her, she was going to lose it forever.

As she shuffled towards the kitchen, Katrina felt herself joining the sick, only that her torment was a mental one. The life she had lived proved to her that sacrifices were necessary. Animals died so her father could provide people with food. Soldiers died to protect the helpless and untrained. Would the sick die because of her deception in order to protect herself and her unborn child?

_Roran kills people too,_ Katrina thought, her fists clutching and wrinkling the dress. Even if the Empire was an enemy, the soldiers that fought for it were still people, just like the ones in Feinster. They all had a choice, and each chose life. Suddenly, something new blossomed inside her. Something he was used to ignore, but never get rid of completely.

Feeling her doubts and worries dissipate, Katrina sighed and signaled the woman out of the kitchen once she placed the bundle of herbs on a wooden table situated on her left. She needed no insightful look to realize that the aromatic herbs, when boiled, would provide her with a strong scented tea that would elude even Fran's suspicion.

Remembering the times when she needed to treat Roran of various injuries, Katrina shuffled through the small kitchen slowly. Once she reached the decrepit oak table, she separated the herbs into smaller bundles belonging to the same kind. The ones with straight stalk, the absence of prominent roots on others or the bulged bulb and the common look of the plants revealed that most of them were gathered from the vicinity of Feinster. Katrina curled the bottom of her lip thoughtfully, teeth pressing on the tender meat forcefully. Most of the plants were used in cooking due to their intense flavor and useful properties. Apart from that, there was nothing that could alleviate pain or cure the sick.

_I couldn't cure them before, I can't cure them now. _

With a swift brush of her hand, Katrina further separated the herbs by pushing them near the edge of the table. What remained in the middle were a few smaller plants with spiky leaves and the unopened azure buds of another type that Katrina recognized as Sky's tears, a medicinal herb usually found in forested areas. Adding to the herbal bundle was a couple of Thargrim's beard nuts whose aromatic insides were protected by a tough, dull-edged triangle-shaped shell.

_Sacrifices,_ Katrina thought, her puzzled expression indicating the worries that ran down her forehead in the form of slithering sweat beads.  
_  
I need to concoct something. Anything that can trick those people.  
_  
Katrina's eyes searched endlessly for anything she could make use of before putting her plans into action. Time was of the essence, and she had yet to ignite the flames that would heat the water enough to the point where the plants would surrender their juices and healing nutrients.

There was pacing, talking, and pleading coming from the other room, and it all made Katrina even more nervous than she already was.

_They will notice that I am not the healer they thought I am…_

With great haste, Katrina picked a bucket placed next to the stove and rushed towards the water barrel, drenching it into the cold liquid. After emptying the whole recipient into a small cauldron, she picked the heavy metal pot, groaning wildly. The wire that served as a handle, combined with the weight of the small cauldron, almost cut through her skin.

_I did nothing so far except planning. Ideas won't cure, trick, and save me from their clutches…_

Katrina sighed when the pot filled with water was neatly placed on the metallic grid, above the hollow space where numerous branches and wood chunks rested. By using fire oil to lit the lumber, the crackling flame burst alive, heating the water in the iron pot slowly.

_It needs to work. _

Almost desperate due to the overwhelming shouts coming from the house, Katrina picked all the herbs, nuts and stalks and rushed to the pot, where she emptied the weight that lay in her arms.

Seeing the bulbs go down, the stalks, the herbs and the buds floating while the water churned and hissed brought a disturbing sense of relief to Katrina. The concoction—her miraculous healing poultice—was the inexorable creation of her imagination, or maybe desperation, or lack of acumen. No matter its origin, what boiled in the pot was a flimsy mass of deceit that would eventually give in its poisonous essence. Her poisonous essence.

_Belly aches and intense pain. They need a cook, not a healer. _

A sudden knock on the door made Katrina shudder violently.

"Lady, we need the healing herbs! There is blood coming out of my son's mouth!" The same woman that dragged her to the young boy earlier stormed inside the kitchen, her eyes sharp and full of churning expectations.

"It almost done!" Katrina shouted, frowning elegantly. "Now leave."

Without saying a word, the woman left and shut the door behind her. Arguing with the one who had the capability of curing her son would do no good—and Katrina knew it.  
However, no amount of excuses or clever persuasion would hold the two women from barging in forever.

Stepping away from the door, Katrina inspected the contents of the pot, which now began steaming. The water, which previously held a crystalline purity, now turned into an opaque substance that held the resemblance of muddied grass.  
Wading a large wooden spoon through the liquid a few times, Katrina waited until the plants were completely stripped of their color. The sick were dependant on Katrina for a cure, and Katrina was depending on the heat to boil her mixture as fast as possible.

After a while of temporary tranquility, the door rang with the banging of the two women. Unlike before, Katrina did not bother answering. There was nothing she could say besides excuses, and the two women would not have it.

"I don't care if it's ready or not. It's all the same to me," Katrina scoffed silently and wrapped a dirty cloth around her hands before removing the pot from its elevated position.

"Wait with the others!" she shouted with a loud, commanding tone. Katrina barely refrained from smiling inwardly when the repeated, furious knocks stopped as fast as they began thumping. She was powerful. For those people, she was a healer capable of many things, and Katrina was well acquainted with the secret power of one's image and strength of character. Sloan made sure to embed this lesson in her head.

_Don't let strangers slice your appearance,_ he whispered in her head. _You are the butcher as long as your words are sharper than their pitiful, slender words. _

_I won't,_ she thought reassuringly as she dragged the cauldron near the door slowly, careful not to spill its seething contents. The wooden spoon jerked sideways lazily when she put the pot down, sighing. Although useless and irritating, Katrina needed the two women to help her. After all, it was a potion made for them, and Sloan impregnated his opinion about helping strangers since she was a child.

_Meat comes from prey, not predator,_ he used to say. _Humans are predators, but they can become prey just as easily. It's them you have to hunt.  
_  
At her call, the two women dashed into the room, displaying their gratitude through kind words and half completed bows. Katrina smiled wryly at their fleeting appreciation, for she was ignored as soon as they picked the pot together.

Katrina followed them silently, aware of all the eyes fixed on her. The room was unusually quiet. Only a retch or a persistent cough eased the dreary, decaying atmosphere. Hailed as a savior in the beginning, Katrina became a forgotten figure as the women, together with Lehmontecte, Mordo and Fran, swooped down on the cauldron with wooden chalices.

"Good," Katrina thought she heard Lehmontecte saying in a low voice.

"Thank you healer." Mardo smiled at her, raising the wooden cup before swallowing its contents.

Such ignorance. Such arrogance. Katrina gritted her teeth and tidied her dress nervously. She was bewildered, saddened, and disappointed by how her meager contribution was ignored. The words of gratitude had been delivered through half parted lips, bowed heads or quick, shy glances. Not one, not even Mardo looked her in the eyes to thank her properly for the way they had abducted her in the marketplace, or the sweat she had poured in the kitchen.

"To our health!" Katrina heard Fran shouting, but couldn't locate him due to all the commotion.

"To your health," she intervened, smiling inwardly.

**Whoa, what a chapter. I really like how this is starting to look, and I hope you too are excited about what will happen next, because Katrina is certainly not your usual healer. **

** Now, there is a possibility that you may consider her actions weird. Before you do so, I ask you to look back on chapter 40 and see how Katrina ended up here. She was almost abducted and forced to visit some sick strangers that could be dangerous too.**


	42. Lady Healer

"You've…you've done something wrong," the man lying on the bed said through half parted lips, his breath labored and loud. "But your cure is not working."

"They're still here," the old man mumbled hoarsely, coughing tersely.

"Whiny geezer."

Katrina recognized the last voice. Its distinct tone irritated her ever since she met him, and the man never stopped glaring with contempt at her for the past few hours. Fran—the witty pest. Unlike the insects that craved for food and a place on her table, Katrina could not get rid of him through any simple means.

"Do something, you damn woman. A pillar without a burden to bear is useless."

Katrina shuddered and rolled on her heels to avoid his petrifying gaze, or muffle his harsh voice unsuccessfully by whispering comforting words to herself.

In reality, she was exposed, just like a deer that recklessly turned its back on a predator. The people who talked yelled foul words and demands at her, and the silent ones watched her with obvious dislike. The sharpness in their gaze, the feral look on their face; she was exposed and defenseless, and could do nothing to make them stop.

"My stomach is devoured by wretched beasts lady," the man on the bed grumbled. "Your sweet face is not going to stop them."

"Give it time," Katrina said firmly, without even realizing that she had been staring at the pain struck man. "The cure will work."

"The pain will stop," the woman who always sat by his bed said whispered softly. "Lady Healer is proficient with herbs."

With a dirty and soggy handkerchief, the man groaned and wiped his sweat drenched brow. Katrina felt tense and troubled. What had she provided to this man whose contorted face bore the wrinkles that came with anguish?

_Tea, _she thought. _A cure for thirst. _

Her fingers kneaded as a perilous drop of sweat slithered down her left temple. Blood rushed through her tight muscles, reddening her hot and slightly humid skin under the silky dress. The protective material that flowed gracefully along her body now felt constricting and uncomfortable.

She kept her composure well until now, but newfound worries never ceased to storm her mind in sudden surges. The noise, the yells, they almost seemed debilitating. And the coughs had yet to cease.

" Use spells!" One of the women screamed, but Katrina did not bother deciphering her identity through all the chaos. "Do you have spells, like in the market? Give people spells to drink."

"False, useless healer," a faint but gentle voice said, followed by short, dry gasps. It was a child's voice, the same child Katrina tried to comfort.

Katrina barely suppressed a yell. Despite the people's worries, she was still the Lady Healer. She held authority, and hearing such ungrateful words from a spoiled brat irritated her to the point where she almost exploded, were it not for the condemning, demoralizing looks that embedded in her swollen pride and courage.

_Little runt, _Katrina thought, narrowing her eyes. _Your mother does not even know how to cook. _

The small room reverberated with the sounds of sickness and depravity. It was this state of apathy and powerlessness that urged Katrina to leave. Some voices were so loud that they intertwined with the screech of a chair, the retch of one of the sick and the omnipresent groans of pain. It was a cacophony that heralded death, a much peaceful solution to all those helpless, ungrateful people.

"Look at her!" Fran yelled. "Staying and watching, bewildered and intimidated by the very people she promised to cure."

"False healer!" Two people joined in an uneven chorus.

"They're dead, but still they live," the old man said, pushing away the wooden stools as he shuffled towards Katrina. "There is no life here, healer. Leave, and they will not take it away."

"The hell she does," Fran hollered, his bloodshot eyes fixed on Katrina. A sinister power welled in his eyes, a product of desperation that unnerved even Roran. He often spoke of dying soldiers, making sure to safeguard her every time by emphasizing the brutality and gruesomeness of the war. It was only now when Katrina finally understood what the look that Roran always refused to describe looked like. And it did not unnerve her.

_I bear a child you bastard. I will poison you if I must, _Katrina thought, smiling at him wryly while she tidied her dress.

"I need supplies," she said loudly, adjusting her voice properly to cover all the muffling distortions. "The cure will work, but certain herbs have to surrender their essence in the pure water. Herbs you do not have."

Fran chuckled. "She boiled everything and now she wants to flee."

"Dat true!" A woman added condemningly, her voice a gritting shrill.

"You boiled the nuts, Thargrim's beard, everything!" Fran continued, his hand shaking due to fury as he pointed towards her. "The bulbs are for cooking. They heal none!"

"Fran!" Lehmontecte intervened. "Back in my village, such unscrupulous words delivered to a lady throw a man into disgrace."

The guardsman whistled, adopting a battle stance. Katrina wondered if the firm hand placed on the pommel would actually draw the sword out of its sheath.

"Let the lady pass, dizzy fools. She is your friend, not an enemy," he said, extending the same hand that he would have used to probably kill to her. His expression was solemn, but actions betrayed the kindness and trust he harbored for people.

Katrina gulped emptily, accepting his hand. She was greatly surprised by the effectiveness of his commanding tone and stoic position that towered above everyone, including Fran. No disagreements followed, and it was now obvious that she had never held any authority, except for the one nurtured by the people's hope. When that died, so did the power in her words faded.

"Gratitude, Lehmontecte."

The guard nodded curtly, allowing her to walk in front of him and be the first to escape the stinking house. "Return swiftly, Lady Healer. They need your speed of thought and agile constitution."

The door creaked open, allowing a surge of light to cascade into the dark room. Its intensity made Katrina's eyes water as she squinted, her legs carrying her outside the house she began to detest.

She barely heard the door smashing against the wall as she inhaled the cool, clean air deeply. Then, she exhaled all the stench that permeated her body; all the worries, the fear, the despicable lies she had been forced to say.

With swift steps, she hurried down the uneven path through the crowded buildings that converged with another before merging with the main road.

The sun warmed her soft skin, and the warm rays intertwined in the combed, auburn hair. Katrina felt free, happy. Free that she surmounted a possible obstacle and happy that her wit outplayed a bunch of sick fools.

Before she ventured into the peaceful city, Katrina looked at the dilapidated cottage. It wasn't resentment that she was feeling, or regret. No, it was something else, and she wondered if Lehmontecte, or Fran, were able to decipher her intentions. If so, would they know that she was not going to return?

**It's pretty short, but I did not really want to mix this one with what is following, but I promise a fast update this time. So, what did you think? I'm pretty sure Katrina is not really meeting your expectations.**


	43. The Shiny Breastplate

Before she saw them, Katrina heard the arguments, the loud and harsh voices, and the prominent clatter of metal against stone. If it wasn't for the verbal distortions, one would actually assume that the city was getting ready for siege.

As soon as the narrow path gave way to the wide, somewhat imposing marketplace, Katrina rushed to the uneven, slightly curved wall of a building in an attempt to mask her position. Hands clutched the dress tightly, her narrow, apprehensive eyes scanning for danger.

Numerous soldiers moved erratically through the numerous paths and ran on the main road while several, more organized ones clogged into groups that patrolled a certain area. It wasn't the numbers that surprised Katrina—after all, she was married with a captain. Their purpose—the reason they suddenly burst in the open, conquering the peace that made its nest on the city earlier—was what puzzled her.

In the distance, there were more guards, joined by several others that walked side by side with them. It was easy to ignore the cloth or leather covered people, as they were a common sight, but when Katrina squinted her eyes, realization struck her. The guards were leading the people away.

Katrina shook her head in bewilderment and pushed herself away from the wall. She had to be away from the sick, and the guards were a familiar sight to her.

Just as she was about to stride in the open, a fast, shadowed figure dashed past her, his arms almost knocking her down. Due to the shock, her legs buckled awkwardly, threatening her balance. When arms failed to find support, Katrina's steadiness dwindled and the ground rushed to meet her.

The sudden shock affected her more than the pain that flared in her arm and knees. Her senses were muffled, the sight was hazy, and she barely noticed a second figure that lashed towards the first.

A wild cry of pain rippled through the small alley.

Katrina blinked several times to clear the colorful dots that clouded her vision, but concentration came hard when her stomach threatened to unload its contents. Sick and sore, Katrina could barely understand why she was sitting there.

A powerful shout suddenly erupted, but it was replaced by the same feral wail she thought she heard earlier.

Katrina closed her eyes and inhaled deeply to alleviate the debilitating nausea.

"Nasuada is deranged," the man yelled as one guard dragged him away. "Galbatorix crippled her judgment."

"Your stomach will meets my fist again if you speak lies, traitor." His train of words faded quickly as the crowd engulfed the two of them.

"Lady, can you get up?"

Katrina looked upwards. The guard who looked at her with concerned dark eyes was young, but the hardship of battle imprinted its permanent touch on his bony face. Unwavering as he seemed, clad in his metal armor, this young soldier was a part of the ones that perished first in battle.

"Can you get up?"

Katrina nodded curtly and pushed her body upwards, allowing the now steady legs to do the rest. She did not like the way this young lad frowned, or the jittery look in his eyes and the constant and irritating stomp of his left foot.

"You're not with them, are you?" the man asked as he inspected her body from head to toe. "I mean…"

Katrina stared at him blankly.

"Heh, I mean, you carry a child, and I don't think you would risk both of your lives. Understand what I mean?"

Before Katrina had a chance to reply, the man began to touch her dress in different places, prodding certain areas with his fingers that he was not even supposed to touch.

Feeling threatened by the sudden invasion of her privacy, Katrina shouted wildly and pushed the man away from her.

Stumbling backwards, the man looked at her apologetically and tried to approach, but Katrina swung another hand at him. Backing away cautiously, the man glanced towards the marketplace.

"Heh," he chuckled, looking at her awkwardly.

"I'm sorry for doing that. I had to check, understand what I mean? I mean, you could be one of them even if you don't look like one of them," he said quickly and ran towards the same direction he looked at earlier, leaving her alone and confused.

Instinct proved stronger than bewilderment, and Katrina swiftly overcame her own reluctance. Still, after the recent encounter, the number of guards intimidated her due to the nervousness and frantic movements she glimpsed earlier.

_The sick will send someone after you_, Sloan's voice said in her mind. _Dying beasts always lash out on the harbinger of death._

Katrina tidied her dress, gulping emptily. If Lehmontecte found her here, he would drag her back into the den of the sick. The butcher would become the butchered.

And her child would never see the light of day.

_I must, _Katrina thought, forcing her legs forward.

As the narrow pathway gave way to the road of the marketplace, Katrina felt her worries trailing behind. Lost in a sea of shouts and guards and people, Katrina felt protected and confident that the sick couldn't spot her in all the gaudy mix of colors and people.

The crowd made little efforts in avoiding her. Even if Katrina never intended to visit the herb stalls, the way home was more tedious than she anticipated. Numerous times had she been nearly knocked down by a dashing guard, or pushed to the side by a jittery man, or scratched by a desperate woman that latched on her dress like a tick.

This image of Feinster made her feel uneasy, stranded in a city she could not fully comprehend. Most of the guards evaded her, but many converged on people who wore brown tunics or leggings. One time, Katrina barely suppressed a scream when a guard drove his sword through an armored man's guts.

The monotonous thump of feet and the screams of protest grated against her ears. Going home was no longer what she wanted. Her desire was to escape, to disappear. And make the noise stop.

"Lady Healer."

Blood almost froze in her veins when the deep voice reached her ears. Vision become foggy, and the ground began spinning eerily. Katrina closed her eyes, inhaling deeply while her shaking legs threatened to buckle and give in.

"Lady Healer."

A cold, firm surface met Katrina's frame, her body shuddering due to the sudden contact. Her legs gave in, but the weight they had to suffer was now someone else's burden. Icy sweat drenched her body, but her senses were alert once again. And the rough touch of his short beard on her face confirmed Katrina's suspicions.

"Lady Healer, you were not going to trade for herbs," Lehmontecte said worriedly, his tone solemn and devoid of any comfort Katrina hoped to sense.

"I—wanted to—"

Yelping, Katrina lurched on her feet when Lehmontecte grabbed her body with his strong hands, pushing her away from his clean, polished breastplate.

"Back in my village, such behavior is not frowned upon, but punished."

Katrina tried to say something, but Lehmontecte shook his dead.

"You abandoned them," he grunted. "You gave them hope, then stripped it away from them."

"I am not a healer!" Katrina blurted. It was the truth, and the only thought that crossed her mind. However, even this certainty did not provide Lehmontecte with what he probably wanted to hear.

A wry smile stretched along his gaunt face. "I know. Fran told Mardo and I."

"Then?" Katrina looked at him pleadingly, her eyes moist with tears produced by her panic attack. Maybe Lehmontecte would take pity on her disheveled, weak appearance. Her deception proved effective more than once.

His hand moved towards the pommel of his sword. "You lack compassion, kindness," he whispered, staring at her with sharp, mahogany eyes. "Poor child…"

Katrina's eyes narrowed. Lehmontecte frowned, his grip on the sword tightening. She couldn't run, or escape him. The loud swarm of guards would not even notice her death. Guards were trained to kill silently, and Lehmontecte would show no clemency.

Katrina's gritted her teeth. Lehmontecte closed his eyes and sighed. If she couldn't evade his sword, then her life was forfeit, along with her child. The shiny breastplate looked so neat, so beautiful. It was the last thing she would see, and notice.

The image of the soldier who killed an armored man suddenly flared to life in her mind. His breastplate was clean and polished. The groups of what she thought were guards were, in fact, city guards escorting others with better armor. In order to survive, Katrina had to let the guards notice Lehmontecte.

Katrina wailed from atop her lungs, the shrilling sound stunning everyone, except Lehmontecte. Eyelids parted, revealing the same mahogany eyes. Only that there was no spite present in his gaze.

Lehmontecte unsheathed his sword and extended his hand towards her. "Take it," he said urgently. "Leave the city. Travel safe, and stay away from Feinster. Fran and Mardo…"

Katrina yelped and jumped backwards when Lehmontecte suddenly dropped to his knees, his words cut off instantly by an arrow that embedded in his left leg.

Katrina froze. Her mind was blank, and her body suddenly refused to obey.

"Lady, are you alright?" A guard shouted. Before she even saw him, another one joined him. Both of their swords were unsheathed, pointing at the fallen soldier.

"He wanted to kill the Lady, I'm telling you!" The second guard cried desperately.

"Aye, he's a scum," the guard with the bow said, kicking Lehmontecte. His hands clutched the area around the arrow, and his face was contorted due to pain. Soft, sporadic whimpers escaped his mouth.

"I'm not enemy," he said, looking at the two guards. Despite his injury, there was clarity in his voice.

"That's what they all say," the bowman chuckled, kneeling down besides Lehmontecte. After beckoning at his comrade, they picked him up slowly by the arms. "But they will all be executed."

"He lies, I'm telling you!"

"Dumb fool," the bowman spat.

Katrina did not even flinch. She could not do anything, not even understand what happened.


	44. Roran, why are you not here?

Horrified, with her heart racing like a deer's that stared death in the eye, Katrina backed away with slow, uncertain steps, trying in vain to find seclusion from the yells of enmity and cries of agony. Varden warriors flowed through the main streets and paths like brown rivulets, their booming cries trying helplessly to quell the desperation and insanity that engulfed the city.

Pitched herself against the wooden door of a house, Katrina winced when a man stared at her for one brief moment before attacking a guard unarmed. A cry of pain, followed by a gurgle sound and then silence followed. The soldier retreated the bloodied sword from the man's body, looked at Katrina with stark, condemning eyes and then walked away. Feeling a creeping dizziness engulfing her, Katrina sighed and tidied her dress before trying to open the door that acted as the support that kept her on her unsteady, shaking legs.

The wood creaked slightly against her slight push. Katrina coughed weakly to announce her presence when the faint candle light suggested a possible resident.

The several tall candles that were spread across the room flickered when Katrina closed the door. A dry smell of wood mixed with dust permeated the room, a consequence to a space without windows. Katrina gripped her dress tightly as she shuffled forward, her eyes focused on the table located in the middle of the room.

The dwelling was almost barren, save for a few shelves littered with various tools such as hammers, bars of metal, metal nails and other objects Katrina did not recognize. A stack of wooden planks resided on the left side of the door, with the right serving as an empty place only dust eagerly claimed. No decorations adorned the dark walls.

A smaller room opened at the other end, but Katrina paid little attention to it. If the bed of her host resided in there, she wished not to disturb him.

_If there is someone in here_, Katrina thought.

A nearby cry sent shudders across Katrina's body. Acting on instinct, Katrina rushed towards the shelf loaded with tools, grabbed a hammer and jumped towards the door, propping her foot against it. In the next moment, a force coalesced with the wooden frame, unbalancing Katrina. With conviction, she threw her weight against the door, pushing the invading force back.

"Open!" A masculine voice yelled. "They're after me."

A surge of remorse washed over Katrina, but her instinct of survival bested her. With limited knowledge about the assassins that infiltrated the Varden and caused the commotion, she shrugged sympathy and regret aside.

Lifting the hammer, Katrina brought it down against the iron stake, the blow sending it right through ring that provided a makeshift lock. The door shook and vibrated, and Katrina knew the metal ring would give in.

Metal clanged harshly under her heavy blows as Katrina began pounding the metal ring with the hammer, bending its shape until no mere human could force it open without proper tools.

"You egoistic bastard!" The man yelled.

The door stopped trembling. Hidden within the confines of the house, Katrina could hear the yell, the screams of the dying man, and the sporadic cough and thump that preceded his death. The clink of metal against stone slowly dissipated as the guards moved on in search of another.

Katrina sighed and wiped her brow with a trembling hand. Her eyes widened when she realized that her whole body was shaking due to fear mixed with adrenaline and balance seemed frail and tedious. Katrina's body lurched as she tried to move towards a nearby chair. In her surge of tumultuous thoughts and emotions, she ignored the leggings that rested on the back of the chair. She would just talk to the resident and reward him for housing her.

"What have I done," Katrina murmured softly, dropping her head on the arms that were already stretched on the almost empty table. "Because of me, that man is dead."

_He was evil_, her conscience said. _Assassins deserve to die._

"But what if he…"

_He was. You did the right thing._

Katrina stared with desolate eyes at the shelves filled with tools. They were so simple, always neutral. Their purpose was dictated by the hand that maneuvered them. No wrong or right mattered to them.

"Ai, ai ai."

The muffled voice sounded from the outer parts of the room. Katrina's head jerked upward instantly.

Trying her best to maintain her poise, she took a deep breath, got up from her chair and tidied her dress clumsily.

From the room located opposite to the door appeared a bearded man with long, ruffled hair. Muscular arms protruded from his broad shoulders, and the feral look in his eyes pierced Katrina's weakened confidence.

Gulping emptily, she instinctively wiped her sweaty palms on the texture of the dress and tried her best to maintain eye contact with the man. If she looked elsewhere, her host might feel insulted, or worse, mocked by such impertinence. However, even if her thoughts and intentions were clear and stout, Katrina found it hard to stare at his clean-of-clothes body. No cloth or leggings covered his body, not even his manhood.

"Exc—c-cuse my trespass," Katrina stuttered.

Even if she tried her best to avoid his lower half, the man seemed unperturbed by his exposed body and did nothing to conceal the source of Katrina's discomfort.

"Das alrigh'," he said on a deep voice. With slow steps, he shuffled towards the table. The candle light suppressed even the cover provided by darkness, and Katrina could contain her anxiety no longer. Nimbly, she reached towards the leggings that hung on her chair and clutched them to her chest, looking at the man expectantly.

However, no nod, not even a single reaction came. His face was impassive, devoid of any possible reaction or obvious feeling. After reaching the middle of the table—and several feet away from her, the man scanned her with dark, piercing eyes. There was a craving in his fixed, menacing stare, a half-concealed desire that stirred fear in Katrina's heart. Perspiration oozed from her hot body. She could feel it trickling down, slithering with incertitude, waiting for the catalyst that would push them forward.

Fear engulfed Katrina's mind. She could not think. She could not talk.

And the lower half of the man amplified her wavering concentration.

Katrina snapped. Without a word uttered, she threw the leggings at the man.

From under the cover of the long hair that flowed across his face like ebony tassels, Katrina glimpsed an image that instilled terror into her heart. The man was frowning. Katrina buckled her legs, preparing to flee. But her body refused to obey

With the corner of her eyes, Katrina glanced at the tools located on the shelves. A possible retaliation idea sprouted in her mind, but what followed next crushed the bud of a promising defense.

It all happened so fast, so sudden.

Bewildered, Katrina brought her hands to protect her face when the man hurled the leggings at her. The texture clouded her vision, and before she had the opportunity to flee, the man was upon her.

Katrina coughed sickly, her bulged veins pulsing vigorously due to the pressure exerted by the man's thick arm around her neck. The tight grip barely allowed air to enter and escape her lungs.

"You fight, child dies," the man sneered.

Katrina squirmed, her arms flailing, feet kicking at her captor, but her efforts proved futile. Dizzy due to lack of air and terror, Katrina's eyes widened when she felt a hand touching her belly.

Only then did the man's words rang clear in her mind. Like a prey that accepted its fate, Katrina's body stiffened, the erratic movements and glancing blows coming to a halt.

"Your belly tells me," The man said softly.

Katrina felt his hot breath on her neck, the tightness of his lower half that poked her bottom parts. Suddenly, a terrible revelation bloomed in her mind.

"You keep healthy child if no squirm," the man chuckled. Katrina's body shuddered, her muscles twitching as the man's hand slid across her back like an ominous snake. The hairs on her body bristled when the hand slithered across her legs.

Tears of desperation welled in Katrina's eyes. How could she fight back, when the man was as strong as her husband? What should she do to protect her unborn child?

_Roran… _Katrina winced and gritted her teeth. The man's hand climbed on the bare skin of her left leg unrestrained. It crawled on the upper parts of it ever so slowly. And then…

"A woman's worth is not always revealed to the eyes. A man," the captor said, touching her private area. Katrina flinched, tears almost erupting on her face. She was on the verge of breaking into sobs, and only her self control and lack of air kept her crumbling poise together.

"Must probe deeper for true value."

Katrina felt the texture of her dress unveiling her legs, her body. The man's clutch around her neck weakened, the almost feeble grip supplying her with much needed air. She was aware of his threats and knew the outcome. Even so, she closed her eyes and exhaled the desperation and fear that coursed through her.

_If Roran was here, she thought_, breathing deeply. Her muscles tightened, confidence and courage flaring inside her.

_He would have fought._ With all the strength and speed she could muster, Katrina delivered a terse elbow blow in the man's stomach and used her other hand to remove the arm around her neck. However, her elbow hit a hard surface, and the arm she tried to shave aside refused to move. Instead of a grunt of pain, a chuckle escaped the man's mouth.

"Reckless and disobedient."

Katrina barely registered his words before pain exploded in her back. Her mouth hung open, but the intensity of the pain prevented sound from emerging. Like a hay doll, she was swirled around, facing the man. With her head lolling uselessly due to pain, she could do nothing. Not even face her attacker.

"Poor child."

Katrina tried to guard her belly, but the man twisted her arm awkwardly. Before she had the chance to scream, to retaliate or protect herself, an almighty blow winded her. Stars burst in Katrina's head, the hurled fist at her belly meeting no resistance. Blood rushed to her throat in an instant.

Coughing violently, Katrina expulsed the metallic taste substance that blocked her already contracted throat and inhaled deeply, desperate for air.

Everything was a blur, an unintelligible mix of black mottled by stains of color. Her vision flickered like the flame of a dying candle, and balance suddenly seemed daunting. Insignificant. Demanding.

Katrina's knees buckled, giving in to her apathy.

"…never listen." The muffled sound barely reached Katrina's ears. She lived in a different plane. A dimension of pain, where reality and delusion converged. Her senses were not completely numb. Terror, desperation, alertness; they still provided a bridge between her distant mind and the faint lit room she wished she would have never entered.

Arms grabbed her body. They lifted her, but the weak, trembling legs refused to join with the ground. Katrina felt a strong force pushing her to the left.

The man lifted her body without much trouble. Katrina groaned and closed her eyes to prevent dizziness from taking over. Her back hit a hard surface, and she could only guess what it was.

"Ever since you got pregnant, your body lacked the vigor of a true man inside it." Katrina sobbed quietly, using her last supply of depleting strength to express her desperation. Tears skidded across her dirt caked face, but the man was barely interested in what her upper body had to offer.

Katrina felt her legs parting sideways. She tried to oppose, but the man's strength was too great, his conviction overwhelming. It was too late for reasoning. All she could do was hold strong through her misery. She had to do this for her child. For her husband that was not here for her.

"You never truly loved after the child corrupted your body."

Katrina whimpered when she felt the man's tightness invading her body. His thrusts were fast and brutal; a torture compared to her husband's delicate, loving touch.

"Roran….Roran…why are you not here?" she cooed helplessly.

Katrina wanted to break down into sobs, to cry and shout her agony. But her feeble strength wouldn't allow it. Alone, with no possibilities to stop the man from assaulting her intimate area, she could only hold strong. She needed to do this for Roran, for her child.

"Why are you not here…"


	45. Seed of discord

**Updates are going to happen daily, or every two days, now that the story is finished. Every review is appreciated, although I would like more than just agree/disagree messages. Explain what you liked/ did not like, not just say that the chapter failed to match your preferences. **

Katrina coughed sickly. No words came out of her constricted, sore throat. Only whimpers of pain.

"Woman, you feel so soft."

She never dared open her eyes since the blow that winded her. She did not want to see the man; feeling his brutal thrusts was a torment, and his hot breath on her soggy face was suffocating. When Katrina wanted to moisten her lips, she tasted not the salty sweat, but blood mixed with sweat.

"Woman!"

Katrina opened her mouth to scream, but only a gurgle came out. In that moment, the clutch on her breasts became seething agony, and the pressure only increased as the man poured himself into her.

Then he exhaled, panting laboriously, satisfied with how her body traded pain for his delight.

Katrina wished to die. To escape the terrible pain, to forget the man's tight presence inside the area reserved for her husband. But as long as his panting lived on, so did her suffering.

Katrina groaned softly, quailing at the man's touch. Arms wrapped around her numb form, right after she felt his presence leaving her thighs. Too dizzy, too shocked Katrina was to realize what was happening. She barely felt the man's body against her, the nausea produced by drag against the tough wooden surface of the table.

The man lifted her. One hand under her knees, one under her back. Like two pillars. Like Roran's grip.

He walked with firm, long steps.

Something opened. The screech was soft, but the light that reflected against Katrina's shut eyelids indicated that it was a door. Was the torment at its end?

Suddenly, her body was no longer held above the ground. She somehow fell.

Rasps of agony erupted from Katrina's throat. Her bulged belly felt like a ball of fire against the tough surface she was lying on, helpless and useless. After a few violent coughs, serenity finally came to her.

"There blood coming out of her..."

"Aye, she fell on the bulge of her belly."

"There's something else on her legs too…"

"Aye, someone squirted into her."

"Her husband?"

"Nay."

"The assassins?"

"Might be."

The two voices—one deep, one not quite so—roused Katrina to her senses. She was in pain, much like one of those times when Sloan punished the meat on her body with fists and wooden sticks. The punishments hardened her, but did not prepare her for such brutality.

Everything throbbed and felt stiff. The belly ached, the breasts were scalding meat, the limbs refused to bend, and she could barely keep her senses alert.

She gained temporary respite, but the man, his tightness inside her—they decayed not. Still, she needed to be strong. For Roran, and for her child.

"She blinked, Farduran."

"Aye, she's coming to senses."

Colors mixed before her eyes, converging into an unintelligible blur. Glimpsing the two men felt daunting and useless. Katrina blinked several times to clear her vision and tried to pull her body upwards with the aid of her arms.

"She can't do it. She too weak."

"Aye, we aid her."

Sturdy arms grabbed Katrina, pushing her ragged frame up. Her unsteady feet scrambled across the dusty path, but they soon found a fragile steadiness.

With her arms curled against the neck of the two men, Katrina's fingers twitched relentlessly. She could not tidy her torn dress, nor could she touch her private area that had oozed the blood that dirtied her legs.

"We take her to healer."

"Aye, she safe there."

"No," Katrina mumbled hoarsely. "Home."

"Don't know where Home is."

"Aye, you need a healer. You pee blood."

Katrina swallowed what little moisture dwelled in her mouth and inhaled deeply. The pain, she could bare, but the numbness was perilous if not alleviated. The haze slowly began to dissipate as Katrina inhaled and exhaled, relaxing her sore muscles. The sounds became clearer, and the soiled dress that dangled on her body turned into a filthy burden.

For a moment, she ignored the two men while she tried to understand what happened. It was a sour memory of suffering and agony, but she needed to tell Roran. She wanted the man who had violated her intimate depths and flung her like spoiled meat dead.

Retribution gave her a new purpose. It felt refreshing, like the surge of the crystalline spring Katrina used to bathe on the outskirts of Carvahall. Even pain felt lesser in front of the new purpose, and the tremors of pain turned to shudders of impatience.

"I am a healer," Katrina said, remembering the authority she held as Lady Healer. "The numerous herbs I have in my house will heal everything."

Her voice sounded less distorted and more powerful, almost commanding. The young armored man regarded her with inquisitive emerald eyes and nodded respectfully.

"You have to show us where. We aid you," the other said.

"Avoid the marketplace," Katrina suggested. She did not wish other men to view her, least talk to them.

"Worry not about the assassins," the young one smiled. "Farduran is skilled with more than just one weapon."

"Forward," Katrina said. "And then left, right before the main road. Then…"

Katrina made sure to include as many paths—even the ones she felt reluctant to walk alone—into her slurring words. The assassins, whoever they were, were a mystery to her, but wounds needed tending, and she craved for Roran's comforting and loving words.

"You are a tough one, lady," the older man chuckled. "Beaten, and you still talk."

Katrina smiled wanly. Appearing kind and pleasant to people was an effective form of manipulation. She loathed the two—the way they talked about her, but she needed them.

With the soldiers supporting much of her weight, Katrina shuffled forward, her bare feet kicking dust and pebbles. The sun was hidden behind the ramshackle houses of this part of Feinster, sprouting new concerns into Katrina's already troubled mind. She did not know how long the peaceful darkness claimed her. The blood hardened on her thighs, turning into dead crimson dust. Her messy hair dangled down her dust caked face, not only irritating, but clouding her vision too.

Of the two soldiers, Katrina tolerated the younger better. Compared to the bald, husky Farduran, his lanky face retained the innocence of youth. His face reddened when he peeked at her private area, and he never stared. Farduran's eyes glimmered with lust, while he was just curious.

"See them," Farduran said.

They stopped for a moment on the path before the marketplace. On the stone paved road, Katrina saw the Varden soldiers dragging the riotous people away. They squirmed, they shouted and accused, but they never escaped.

"The tanned leather vests and pristine armor hide poison vials, small daggers, and other tools the assassins use," the young man whispered in her left ear.

"They poisoned the food of the kind merchants, too."

"They will be executed," Farduran concluded at Katrina's nod.

As they followed the left path, the noises of the marketplace began to scatter. The tall buildings that housed the nobles blocked most of the agitation that engulfed Feinster. Guarded against the sounds of captured people, Katrina relived the moment when her voice sealed Lehmontecte's fate. The man wanted to help her, and her fear rewarded him with execution.

"Bear no troubles," Farduran said. "When you are home, we go find the assassin that squirted seed inside you. Crush his head with a hammer, I will."

"Like that Stronghammer!" the young one intervened excitedly. "Farduran is proficient with all kind of weapons."

Katrina almost disregarded his words when she heard the name of her husband. Pride bloomed inside her, amplifying her desire to meet with her beloved.

"He's my husband," Katrina said with pride. "Kind Farduran, it is he who will kill that man."

"Heh," he grunted hoarsely, looking away. "Then he will."

"When he returns," Katrina added.

An ominous silence followed. The young one parted his lips, glanced at Katrina, but hesitated. The path was narrow and long, and she dwelled not on his reaction. Every time he did that, Katrina assumed that he caught a glimpse of her beautiful breasts, or looked between her legs.

"The military leader for small operations never returned," Farduran uttered grimly. "Them assassins got him."

"We don't know!" The young man cut in sharply. "Prestov was not alone, and he had a task from Nasuada."

A strange shudder vibrated through Katrina's worn-out muscles. The name sounded oddly familiar.

"Nasuada, the Council, that false Council Representative," Farduran scoffed. "Nobody is away for so long after a siege. He is dead."

The young man looked sullen and enraged, but he said nothing to the older soldier who bore down on him sternly.

Katrina frowned. She never liked the man, but the austere conviction his voice boomed with frightened her.

"Roran is away from bed for longer than I wish to say. Maybe…" her words suddenly came to a stop.

Katrina's legs buckled awkwardly, forcing her arms to tighten around the men's neck for support.

"Lady, your—"

"Blood," Farduran said coolly. "The child is peeing its own essence."

Trickles of warm blood slithered down Katrina's thighs. Her belly did not hurt more than it already did, yet her body felt flimsy, her mind fuzzy. Sweat seeped out of her skin, and the tattered dress felt like a sweltering prison.

"Have to get her home," Katrina heard the young man say urgently. "She can heal herself."

"Nonsense," Farduran harsh and disgusting voice surfaced. "The one who squirted into her entered too deep. Was too harsh. Hit her hard."

Dismay was all that Katrina felt until the two soldiers discarded her filthy form into the clean bed she and Roran shared. The young one insisted to aid her, but Farduran left, dragging his companion away as fast as they brought her home.

She felt unnaturally weak, devoid of energy and purpose. Limbs refused to respond to her pleas, and until the sun died in the sky, she had only laid down, soiling the clean sheets with the dingy dress, watering them with blood.

When the crimson flow finally stopped and strength returned to her, Katrina smiled wryly.

_Prestov,_ she thought. _He was the man that hauled my husband out of this bed. _

The revelation did not devastate, nor crippled her. Her senses, her feelings and thoughts were too numb to pile more on the mound of suffering. The man that had leaked his seed into her and killed her child would never die, because her husband died before her plea came to life. The long awaited touch, the comforting words she had waited for would never come. If Prestov was dead, then Roran was dead too.

Like a ghastly apparition, Katrina rose to her feet. With a maladroit shuffle and a resolute determination, she entered the kitchen. The smell of decay was the first she noticed. Flies buzzed around the cheese, and the maize porridge emitted a foul smell.

Katrina picked the meat cleaver.

_You are a huge burden. The hollow between your legs represents the worth you have for me,_ Sloan once said to her during one of his drunken hazes. The memory of her father was the only thing she had left in this world.

_I always hated you, father_, Katrina smirked before the meat cleaver met her neck.

* * *

The harsh midday sun—together with the incoherent shouts of the crowd—affected Nasuada more than the simple decision she had to deliver.

They were unusually loud and savage today. Instead of witnessing an execution with dignity and solemnity, the people desperately sought to break the outer square of soldiers that acted as a dam against raging waters.

Maybe it was the heat, scorching them, or maybe they were just impatient.

From atop the mansion, Nasuada couldn't tell. A leader was burdened with more important concerns, and Nasuada still hasn't figured why her own people turned against each other. Had they not been happy with her rule? Had she pushed them into Galbatorix's waiting hands by neglecting their needs?

More unnerving was Horst's appearance. He and other Carvahall villagers calmly waited the visit of the executioner, kneeled in a straight line with the other assassins who concealed their dreaded assassination tools in clean clothing or polished armor.

Feet thudded on the wooden stairway.

"Proceed," Nasuada said, still staring at the culprits. The commotion prevented her from getting close, and Nasuada had to settle with her plain, deficient imagination. She thought they stared at her menacingly, with gnarled and twisted figures. They hated her.

Soldiers parted, allowing a lone man entrance through the ranks of boisterous people. The same man who came to her and hear her decision.

The crowd protested harshly at his appearance, yelling, occasionally throwing their bulks against the armored soldiers.

Nasuada frowned. Something motivated them to fight her rule. They wouldn't risk their life pointlessly at a display intended to quell a possible uprising. Whippings, and the occasional execution instilled an irrational fear in their hearts. It was Nasuada's only way to control a people deprived of hope and safety.

Today, it almost proved ineffective.

Heads fell, cries echoed. And the crowd's spirits basked in it, fueling their power. Their hatred of her.


	46. Murdi

Murdi—Lord of Mountain Clans, as he liked to think of himself, sat at his small wooden desk, pondering. Pale candle light illuminated the tiny and cozy room, its reflection shimmering faintly on the marble walls. Only a row of shelves filled with musty scrolls provided cover for the naked room, save for the luxurious pine desk that sat in the middle, along with the burly dwarf that rested on his chair, hands brought to his temples.

"No," he said, slamming a hand on the table, parchments and maps trembling. A fine layer of dust began its ascension to the upper parts of the room.

"That greedy basterd is not going to betray Orik. In his foolishness, he still believes that half of Alagaesia will belong to him. And that arrogant Havard," he spat spitefully, his hand hovering over the territory of Durgrimst Fanghur, "he would let a pebble kill him if only that would ensure his descent into history. What's to him a couple of thousands killed to accomplish his ridiculous aspirations?"

Murdi pondered, looking over the maps with sharp beady eyes. "Thodris can see reason, but instead, he sees Orik!"

He sighed and began scratching his dense ebony beard, astute brown eyes analyzing the dwarven territories. He had already spent more time than he wished, but less than how much he needed in order to come up with a reasonable strategy.

When the candle perched on the right side of the desk would flicker and die, Argath would come to bring information about his spies' reports, other positive message hopefully and say that the army is ready. Murdi wanted to prevent that, even if the army assembled at his order. It was in his power to do so.

His thick finger hovered above the map depicting all of the dwarven clans and lands, circling Fanghur, Gedthrall and Nagra like a ravenous eagle. If his plans were to succeed, Az Sweldn Rak Anhuin needed more power, influence, and most important, nonexistent threats from the neighboring lands.

Murdi mumbled something to himself, staring at the scroll with the possible number of warriors with great interest. Compared to his army, such pitiful resistance would be snuffed out like the candle that just…

"Barzul!" Murdi yelled, hitting the desk with both of his fists. The room became increasingly darker, making reading difficult. Supplies were not scarce for his clan, yet Murdi had only brought several candles. The dim light, however, was not his concern. The maps and numbers were already embedded in his memory. No, the time has come.

_Time to see what yer mind is made of_, Murdi thought, turning around from his desk to climb the small, door less slope that provided entrance to his makeshift study. After he left the small room, the eerie light of the ever-burning lamps greeted his presence, making him squint in annoyance. He never liked such contraptions.

The rectangular corridor in which he was standing represented a set of rooms that had been passed down to each Grimsborith of the clan. For his clan, they were what humans called them royal headquarters, only that they lacked servants. Not because Murdi didn't have such dwarves doing his bidding—everybody was more than willing to serve him. No, they left because Murdi needed to be alone. Ideas couldn't had come if he was not alone, and the future of his clan depended on what his brilliant mind sprouted.

With fast steps that indicated his nervousness, Murdi rushed to the end of the corridor, pushing the iron door aside. The metal screeched in protest, but eventually gave in. The noise and sound of footsteps greeted Murdi in an instant. Crowds of loud dwarves filled the cavern, executing his orders.

"Master Murdi," a sudden voice alerted the muscular dwarf who looked back at the source of the noise casually. He had expected him, the sly Argath.

"Shout or not, I can barely hear ye," Murdi complained, pointing forward to a section where the clang of armored warriors and their unpleasant cries of annoyance had no power.

"Master Murdi, they're here," Argath said confidently, glancing at him for approval. "Havard was quite reluctant to—"

"Does matter not," Murdi interrupted, continuing his walk. "What did Freowin demand?"

Argath's stiff posture flinched with uncertainty. "Half, but—"

"Matter not," Murdi said, walking with the same indifference. "That basterd's army is a locust before mine, but swarms work effectively."

"Fine words, Master Murdi," Argath said, rushing to open the iron door that appeared before Murdi as he veered left.

"Mhm," Murdi grunted, entering the almost empty mess hall. Only a few dwarves still gorged on some leftovers abandoned on the long marble tables. The room was big enough to accommodate a small army, but the same force had recently left it, answering Murdi's command. Two female attendants rushed to Murdi, but Argath cleverly intercepted them with a request for two meals. The women nodded and rushed to prepare the food.

"Reports," Murdi said, sitting on a wooden stool at the edge of the table.

"What about the other Clan Lords?" Argath asked, surprised. He sat opposite to Murdi, dark eyes daring not to look into his.

"I know how to work them around," Murdi said, brushing his dense ebony beard with two fat fingers. "Ye tell me the reports."

Argath placed his clasped hands on the table. "Nothing much has changed. Nagra and Fanghur fortify their defenses and them desperate basterds send messengers to Orik every day."

"Good," Murdi said. "No change means that mine plan is going to work." Murdi lifted his gaze, looking intently at Argath, who reciprocated similar confidence.

"The army is ready," he said, breaking the eye contact. "It's the purpose that is hard to comprehend."

"A wise commander does not wage battles all the time," Murdi said, stopping the activity of his left hand. "Trick yer opponent, and they believe what their eyes see."

"But the other clans!" Argath almost shouted. "The other clans, the reports—"

"Not yet," Murdi said impassively. "We can't fight all of them at once."

Argath nodded, head dropping in acknowledgment and shame. Murdi's fingers ran through his beard once again, his mind preoccupied with the three Clan Lords.

Argath, the dwarf sitting in front of him, was wearing his dark battle armor and brown tunic, the fabric torn around his thick, muscular arms. A brilliant commander on the battlefield with keen eyes and intuitive mind, Argath was the pride of Murdi's clan. However, the brown bearded dwarf lacked confidence and vision, two traits that could have complemented his leadership skills nicely.

"Have they seen the army?" Murdi interrupted the moment of silence, fingers stopping inside the neatly trimmed beard.

"More than once."

Murdi waved with his right hand at Argath, beckoning him to leave. "Send them all here."

The dwarf, surprise visible on his face, did as commanded and prepared to leave. Murdi knew that he forced him to abandon a meal he had probably looked forward to, but such was the price of loyalty. If Argath ever got over his weaknesses and attempt to steal his position as a Grimsborith, the whole army would support him. Murdi had to be careful not to let that happen.

"Order the attendants to prepare more meals and bring ale."

Argath turned around, nodded and turned around to fulfill his new task. Murdi couldn't help but smile under his black mustache. Argath was his friend—he had been commander for more than a decade, yet he never disobeyed Murdi. That never had to happen.

_This is going to work,_ Murdi thought, hitting the marble table with his fingers. _Three clans now, Quan later… _

The screech of the metal door interrupted Murdi from his musings. Lost in his thoughts, the Lord of Mountain Clans had been ignorant to the passing of time.

Having seen his guests with the corner of his eyes, Murdi got up, adopting a formal stance that inspired confidence and power. Even if they had seen him bending over the table like a drunkard, Murdi did not care. In his territory, none of them possessed any power. They were at his mercy.

"Good tidings, lad," Thodris said, greeting him formally before he sat at the table. Sweet on the exterior, the voice was trickery in essence.

"Mhm," Freowin grunted and took a seat at the head of the table, his green eyes never leaving Murdi.

_Arrogant basterd,_ Murdi thought, frowning at him.

"I didn't accept yer invitation because of food," Havard said, refusing to take a seat. "We have all heard what happened to Vermund after the shame he bestowed upon himself. Yer clan is spit on fine stone."

"Yer my guest," Murdi said impassively, trying to conceal the hatred he harbored for the arrogant dwarf. "Tarnish my name, but not that of mine clan."

Havard laughed chillingly. "Yer threats are empty, just like the table before me."

"Ye'll be fed immediately," Murdi snickered. "With more than just meat and ale."

"I have me own cooks," Freowin muttered angrily. "Tell me what ye have to and be done with it."

Murdi prepared to say something to the arrogant dwarf who spewed his vitriol unchecked, but the thud of footsteps and clinks of steel plates interrupted him. The servants brought lavishly covered trays, each holding roasted meat coated with oil and herbs, along with other delicacies. The feast before them seemed to quench any past spite, for as soon as the metal hit the marble surface, the dwarves began feasting, wolfing down the meat and washing it down with wine and ale. Havard, who seemed to turn down the offer of food, took a seat besides Freowin and attacked his own meal.

_Meat will keep that basterd's mouth filled_, Murdi smiled inwardly and sat next to Thodris. Nobody in this room was his ally—not yet, at least, but cunningness and deception were less aggressive and provided evidence of a shrewd mind. Freowin and Havard, on the other hand, were not carved properly. Making a compliant work of art out of such crude forms needed strength of character and unfaltering resolution. They needed to understand just how dangerous Murdi was.

"Have ye seen the army?" Murdi carefully prodded, testing for reactions. The two troublesome dwarves, Freowin and Havard, glanced at him ignorantly and continued to feast. Thodris did not even flinch. Chances were that he knew about the plan of intimidation all along.

Murdi smiled. "Ten thousand strong men. A pitiful comparison to Orik's army, yet enough to make me feel secure."

Again, words seemed to evade their ears like logic avoided a drunk man's mind. However, Murdi was prepared for such careless indifference.

"Secure enough to make a certain idea blossom," he said, picking a hearty haunch and tearing into it. "It involves your clans, of course."

Murdi was almost certain Thodris smiled. The sly Nagra knew what he meant.

"Are ye threatening us, Murdi?" Havard almost yelled, meat flying out of his mouth. "Is that why ye called me here?"

"That's despicable!" Freowin joined, metal shaking at the slam of his fist on the hard surface. "Yer sick mind disgusts me."

Murdi's confidence bolstered at such unreasonable words. He could almost feel the tension oozing from Freowin, a nervousness that heralded fear and insecurity. The dwarf knew how weak he was and how much damage a battle against an opponent like Murdi would cause. Murdi knew exactly how to demolish his faltering confidence.

"I will take _half_ of your land, claim _half _of your clan, but slaughter your entire army. In the end, ye are not even going to be worth _half _of what you already are."

Freowin looked at him with shocked eyes, then sought refuge into his meal. His hands picked the haunches and bones with timidity, fingers trembling slightly. How could one like him hope to match ten thousands, when most of his troops joined Orik's?

"Clever," Thodris remarked, sipping his wine. "I suppose yer spies are greatly rewarded."

"The reward comes at the end," Murdi said, picking his own cup. "But it will not be Orik who brings it to you."

"Yer sly words and false promises are not going to weaken me decision," Havard retorted, throwing a bone on the floor with contempt. "Ye only want to ruin us so that ye can rule instead of Orik."

"I am not going to," Murdi said calmly, pointing with the cup at him. "Ye can keep yer lands."

Havard's eyes narrowed. The dwarf was suspicious about his deal, but could not simply dismiss it. This was his chance to conquer him, the most rebellious piece of them all.

"What I require of ye is that ye join yer armies with mine."

"What of Orik?" Thodris asked with calm voice, as if the outcome was clear to him. "We crowned him, only to backstab him while he's away?"

Murdi barely restrained a chuckle. "That dumb fool has no vision. Ye think that Rider and his lackeys care about us? Them humans will send our people to die, and then secure the throne for themselves."

"Ye speak of treason," Thodris reproached. "Orik does what is best for us."

Murdi took another bite from the haunch of meat, the small bones sliding between his fingers. How could he tempt Thodris? What could he offer? He needed something grand and impetuous, something that required vision. The answer was clear as the ruby wine in his cup.

"The basterd does what he is best for his clan. Ye think he accepted a human in his clan because of kindness?"

Thodris said nothing. That much was true, and most dwarves found the idea repulsing.

"His army will get massacred or Nasuada and Eragon will take over it," Murdi said with conviction. Both dwarves fell silent, only the sound of munching breaking the monotony.

"It's time we forge our own fate, not the one dictated by humans and basterd elves."

"And how can ye do that?" Havard intervened. "Ye think ye have the power to take over Orik's kingdom and settle the differences between each clan? That's only wishful thoughts coming from a crazed basterd."

"That not be true," Murdi said, getting up. His posture towered above them all like a beacon of inspiration. All eyes were fixed on him.

"Not as long as we stop following past transgressions and stop looking at the stone instead of seeing the mine."

"It's time we form a single clan with us as its pillars."

Murdi, Lord of Mountain Clans, lay in his bed, smiling. The three Clan Lords agreed to follow his plan, even if Havard was still reluctant. Thodris and Freowin had fallen before promises of wealth and unity between clans, and the two already agreed to contribute to his grand plan.

Havard lacked acumen, but the basterd was no fool. While the other two gained confidence when Murdi shared a part of his plan regarding Quan—the Durgrimst with the most influence over dwarves, Havard's suspicions were only then abolished. He was an ally, yet only time could alleviate the mental defeat he suffered today.

The three of them would leave tomorrow to inform their clans of what transpired this glorious day and prepare for the next part of Murdi's plan. As much as he didn't like the idea of giving positions of power to them, Murdi knew how important this detail was in the grand scheme of plans. Alone, he could never convince Gannel to join him, least demand him to go against the most sacred dwarven rule.

_He cannot deny me this_, Murdi thought, his smile broadening. _No one can. _


	47. Gannel

Gannel walked around nervously like a tortured animal, his fists clenched, ready to hit something.

"Ye descended into madness," he said hoarsely, his jittery posture stopping at the edge of the luminous glass panel that covered what used to be the exit of a cave. "What is the meaning of this?" He hit the glass with his finger nervously several times before the glass stop ringing.

"This," Murdi said, clasping his hands together, "is the response to yer lack of response."

Gannel's eyes narrowed and backed away from the huge window. The picture below the elevated royal chamber located high in the mountain was enough to intimidate even the owner of such lavish and well protected room. The brightness of the sun forced Murdi to squint his eyes, but the smile under his thick ebony beard showed no dislike.

"Mine whole army," Murdi said, eyes sparkling with pride at such grand sight. "Fifteen thousands able warriors." From afar, the army looked like a swarm of locusts, ready to devour and lay waste to the pitiful Quan and its prideful leader.

_Ye must respond now, smug basterd, _Murdi thought, backing away from the glorious image.

"Yer a fool to dabble with powers yer mind cannot register," Gannel threatened, glaring at him with stark green eyes. "Gunthera will swipe yer army for such desecration. Ye do not want to incur me wrath, Murdi."

Murdi laughed and sat on a mahogany stool with intricate carvings. "Yer not in the position for threats. Not when me army can leave this territory more barren than an empty mine."

"Ye can't win ye basterd," a deep voice came from the fringe of the chamber. "We know what yer god is, and killing messengers won't help ye this time."

Thodris—Grimsborith of Durgrimst Nagra—approached Murdi when the Lord of Mountain Clans nodded in approval, signaling him to come closer.

"Ha!" Gannel spat. "Ye brought yer tamed Nagra with ye." Thodris narrowed his eyes, but Murdi lifted a hand before anything wrong came out of his sometimes uncoordinated mouth.

"Tamed or not, me ally has got a bigger army. His people feast on roasted meat while yers will become a feast for vultures."

Gannel frowned, looking menacingly at both of them, his stare intense and full of loathe.

"The other clans are not going to accept yer empty threats heathen," Gannel yelled, crashing his impressive dark robed bulk on a chair that creaked in protest. "Orik has been chosen by Guntera. Ye are just ore with too many impurities compared to him."

Murdi caressed his beard contentedly, mustache parting from beard in a wide smile. "Should change that. It is in yer power, Quan."

Gannel's face turned pale, eyes widening with shock. Unable to respond, the dwarf covered his face with his palms shamefully, contemplating his predicament.

_That's what spies are for ye basterd,_ Murdi thought, lifting his muscled body with pride, as if a tense and dangerous battle approached its final stage, and he was the victor. Seeing the mighty and prideful basterd reduced to scraps of metal swelled his satisfaction and stirred his heart. Gannel was an important part of his plans, and the impending fall of his clan could not be stopped. Too fervent to even look at his pathetic form, Murdi inspected the chamber where Gannel assembled his meetings. Two weeks of preparation have brought him to this moment. He might as well enjoy it.

Murdi's garish decorations paled in comparison to the beautiful tapestries and paintings that colored the dull grey sections of the uneven cave walls. Ever-burning lamps glowed with diaphanous intensity, their power conquered by the brightness of the sun rays that flickered through pristine glass.

"Ye can't fight Murdi, lad," Thodris said calmly, almost compassionately. "If Orik has indeed forsaken us, then mine people need protection, same as yers."

Gannel sighed and unveiled his cherry red face. From his position, Murdi assumed he was crying.

"Ye ask me to abandon mine people or relinquish mine faith," Gannel said with shuddering voice. "Aren't ye afraid of the doom the gods might bring upon us?"

Thodris shrugged impassively, but Murdi suddenly intervened. "Gods aren't going to stop the slaughtering of Orik's army. We can't wait for the Empire to bring war to us and wipe each clan one by one. Religion must give way to strength, else Guntera will remain without worshippers to call his name."

"Ye do not speak his name heathen," Gannel said malevolently. "Such transgression will not be forgotten."

Murdi crossed his arms, his posture firm and eyes staring at Gannel sharply. "I settle with whatever punishment comes from using that runed rock of yours."

Gannel got up in an instant, face contorted with anger as the enraged dwarf charged, fists ready to deliver a wakening blow to a heathen. Thodris, being the faster and muscular of the two, kicked the stool in Gannel's direction and used the distraction to deliver a mighty blow in his stomach.

The priest stumbled on the floor, groaning in pain and shame. The dark velvety robe leaked across the brownish floor in meandering patterns that suddenly changed when Gannel pushed his body upwards, cursing them both.

"What will it take to drive you back?" Gannel yelled with contempt, moving towards the door. Murdi tipped his head slightly, and Thodris blocked his way in an instant.

"Your response, Quan," Murdi pressed his words.

"Ye are not worthy of sitting on stone," Gannel murmured and pushed Thodris aside. The dwarf appeared surprised when Murdi made no attempt to stop him.

"Ye let him leave lad?"

Murdi stared at the ornate iron door, contemplating before his words came. "That be good for now."

Thodris nodded and prepared to leave, but his path was suddenly diverted when he noticed that Murdi was not following.

"What ye doing?"

Holding a bejeweled goblet in his hand, Murdi glared at him, picked a runed tablet and announced their departure. Thodris looked at him questioningly, but dared say nothing.

_The basterd is more cunning than I expected_, Murdi thought, clutching his new acquired items to his chest.

* * *

"Can he really summon Guntera's presence?" Thodris asked while he walked alongside Murdi, his voice echoing through the twilit encampment. The elder dwarf cowered slightly at his frown.

"The basterd gives the dwarves what they want to see," Murdi said, making his way through the ranks of troops. The warriors parted at his presence, creating a corridor for the Lord of Mountain Clans and the Nagra. The sun lowered its position in the sky during the errands Murdi performed after the talk with the Quan Grimsborith. Inspecting the army, making sure his orders are followed and providing further instructions to Argath was almost as important as convincing Gannel why he had to accept his proposal.

When they were out of ear sight, he continued. "I knew from a long time ago that Quan possesses a certain artifact. It shows the glowing image of a dwarf king who probably owned that runed stone." Thodris looked at him with questioning eyes, but Murdi shook his head. They continued to walk on the dusty path until a tent loomed in the distance, not far away from them.

"Nay, that basterd is not Guntera. Apart from name, it's just a magic that blinds dwarves who live in stupor and allows Quan to choose the king."

The two guards stationed in front of the tent nodded and moved away, allowing Murdi and Thodris to enter the spacious makeshift meeting room. The blue tent was barren, save for the table and a few chairs in the middle to accommodate the attendees.

"What about ransacking of supplies?" Thodris pulled a chair and rested his frame on it, elbows hitting the table. His chin leaned on his hands contemplatively.

"Going well," Murdi said, crashing on a chair equipped with cushions at his command. The long walk, the tasks, the war, they all wore him out. "Argath pillaged more than three quarters of the supplies. That basterd locked most of them in a cave."

Thodris grunted contentedly, but his constantly shifting eyes betrayed a hint of uneasiness.

"Speak," Murdi commanded.

Thodris sighed. "Are ye certain the basterd can control Guntera? What if the people—"

"That not Guntera ye fool," Murdi almost shouted, hand hitting the table. "Ye fell for the Gannel's deception already?"

"It doesn't matter if it is Guntera," Thodris responded calmly. "Dwarves believe he is, and if the Quan priest cannot control him, yer plans will collapse." The grim meaning of his message and the grave tone of his voice bothered Murdi. He already shared his whole plan with Thodris. The dwarf was sharp of mind and tongue, and a good advisor.

Thodris' words created doubts. Even Murdi did not know what that runed stone actually was, and more important, who the dwarf named Guntera was. It wasn't a god. That much, he was certain of. Gods do not descend among mortals at such convenient times. It was blatant manipulation laced with magic tricks the Quan had picked throughout the centuries. They had grown quite proficient too, yet so far, no dwarf had had such a broad vision such as Murdi, Lord of Mountain Clans.

Vision, that's what Murdi had plenty of. Many had tried to achieve something great, yet only he dared to conquer clans and manipulate dwarves. Vision had led him this far, and Murdi had no intentions to be Lord over four clans.

"The basterd can, and he will," Murdi said with conviction, running his fingers along the bushy ebony beard contentedly.

The power in his voice was so intense that Thodris' concerns were instantly alleviated. The dwarf nodded respectfully, accepting Murdi's grand vision without a doubt.

_Dwarfs need no god_, Murdi thought, looking at the expressive example in front of him. Thodris, the cunning serpent, bowing before the ambitions of someone who not only promised, but acted to fulfill his wishes. _They need vision._

"Lord Murdi, a priest requires a word with you," the grating voice of a guard came, jolting Murdi from his dreams and aspirations.

"Enter," Murdi said, preparing to meet the stranger who disturbed him. When his eyes settled on the robed dwarf, however, satisfaction bloomed inside him.

"What ye doing, ye basterd?" Gannel yelled. The two guards bustled in, axes ready to strike down the one who insulted their Lord. Murdi, however, beckoned them to leave and sat back on his chair, smiling.

"Speeding yer reply."


	48. Lord of Mountain Clans

Murdi, Lord of Mountain Clans, wore a sumptuous dark robe decorated with intricate golden runes on the day he was going to become King.

He felt agitated, full of life and pride. Soon, his plans would reveal the polished beauty of what had once been crude rock. There was no time for reveries, however, as preparations had already started.

With jittery steps, Murdi shuffled around his grand room in Farthen Dur, picking a gold ornate bracelet and whatever metals were present in the room, along with other decorations. Murdi frowned at such trifles, but like in the case of Guntera the false God, the image he created before the dwarves counted.

Two months had passed since Gannel, pressed hard by Murdi's will and lack of supplies, accepted to serve under his rule. Being the most influential clan, Quan—at Murdi's request—immediately started to spread its messengers across the Beors and trample Orik's image by accusing him of leaving the dwarves unprotected because the human Rider commanded so. Other messages were even more outrageous, explaining how Eragon was actually the King and Orik was his puppet.

Yet, no one dared to oppose Quan, not when Gannel slyly promised them that Guntera will appear again to guide the dwarves during these times of turmoil. Every Grimsborith contemplated such words with suspicion, but their sinister minds and intentions urged them to converge on Farthen Dur and see with their own eyes if the gods had indeed forsaken Orik.

Even from his secluded room Murdi could hear the clinking of metal boots on stone and idle chatter among the huge amount of dwarves that headed towards the central hall where Guntera would show the dwarves his choice.

With one last stroke of his beard, Murdi mumbled something to himself, equipped a silver tiara because the rite demanded so and walked nervously towards the door where Thodris was supposed to wait for him.

The massive doors parted in front of Murdi, allowing the mumblings and chatter to rampantly circulate along the walls. The crowd gathered in front of Murdi's room was impressive, and only his own personal guards kept their weapons high, the imposing blades intimidating everyone who dared lash out at him.

Confused, Murdi frowned at the sea of people who vehemently insulted the name of his clan, along with his own.

"Pay the basterds no nevermind," Thodris said, beckoning his own guards to keep the sea of dwarves at bay while they began walking.

"Betrayer! Heathen!" One dwarf shouted.

"Yer ambitions will ruin us all," another voice overpowered the rest.

"Yer clan is named after dirt," a yell reached his ears, but Murdi shrugged it easily. Dwarves with vision were always loathed in the beginning, only to be praised and loved later. Dwarves needed time to adjust, and Murdi had no intentions to deny them a peaceful transition from a damned king to a rightful one.

The impressive number of dwarves only increased in numbers as Murdi and Thodris made their way towards the central hall. The grand chamber lacked the frivolous decorations that were usually present at such ceremony. Instead, numerous dwarven lamps were hung throughout the darkening hall, their glow creating an air of mystery and power.

Murdi signaled Thodris to stop. Before them lay the same black throne where Orik had been crowned king. Now, the same throne would belong to him as well as disposing of Orik's troublesome rule and wishful ideals altered by the presence of Eragon and them humans.

Gannel, clan chief of Dûrgrimst Quan, stepped forward, breaking the ring of people around the chamber, and walked to stand on the right-hand side of the throne. The heavy-shouldered dwarf was dressed in sumptuous red robes, the borders of which gleamed with runes outlined with metal thread. In one hand, Gannel bore a tall staff with a clear, pointed runed stone mounted on the top.

_Cunning basterd,_ Murdi thought, looking at the priest intently. Gannel spread his arms, quieting the noisy crowd. Shouts were reduced to whispers, which in turn dissipated into an eerie silence.

"Dwarves of the thirteen clans," Gannel began his preach. "The gods frown upon our people, their wisdom seeking to slither into the minds of their worshippers through signs. As the favored son of Guntera and Grimsborith of Durgrimst Quan, the creator of the earth and heavens and the boundless sea has gifted me with a certain revelation, one that may forever shape the future of our kind."

The crowd began to whispers restlessly, but Gannel's voice thundered through the sea of dwarves.

"The signs point towards a great disaster and a betrayal coming from one of our own. The proofs are unfathomable and the wisdom of the gods unmatched. I, Gannel, as their messenger, found it necessary to spread my concerns to all thirteen clans."

Murdi shifted nervously. The speech seemed carved of the finest stone, and Gannel finally seemed to see reason after a life spent in darkness and obedience.

"Orik, King of the dwarves, has gathered all of our finest warriors to wage war against a fierce and perilous force. However, even Galbatorix fears our stone fortresses and sharp axes. But Orik, in his irrational aspiration instilled by Eragon and them humans, has relinquished the protection of stone and gladly embraced the aggressive and barbarous tactics of humans. His transgressions go beyond that of forsaking the nature of his kin; recently, he adopted a human in his clan to increase his reputation with them and insert their barbarity among our own!"

The booming and zealous voice caused an eruption of yells and curses and insults, the loudest coming from the members of Ingeitum. The guards barely restrained the masses of angry dwarves until spirits died down and Gannel could again speak.

"Guntera, however, is merciful with his people and clans, and in his great power, he knows that a wrong leader can spoil his people."

Murdi smiled under his mustache when the members of Ingeitum began whispering among themselves, pleased that the accusations against them stopped.

"The king of the Gods spoke to me. In order for our race to flourish, we need a new ruler. One that can bring prosperity back to our people and make sure that our traditions are never tarnished by them humans. In order for that to happen, Orik needs to be forgotten."

For a moment, there was silence. As a volcano that has just awakened, the crowd erupted, words of doubt being yelled and uncertainty quickly spreading through the sea of dwarves.

"Liar!" One dwarf yelled.

"There is no better king!"

Gannel spread his arms, his indomitable crimson stature silencing the crowd once again.

"Me kin, this is not a question worthy of a mortal," Gannel said, flicking his staff.

"Guntera, king of the Gods, is going to decide the future of our people," Gannel concluded and moved in front of the throne. After taking a deep breath, the priest began chanting in a language foreign to Murdi.

"The ancient language," Thodris whispered in his ear. "That's how the basterd calls his god."

Murdi nodded and watched Gannel intently. The runed head of the staff flickered with power, and as Gannel's words increased in power, so did the light began to radiate with frightening intensity. The nebulous form of light blazed to life suddenly, the shimmering patterns forming the same image Murdi had seen before: the one of a dwarf. His spies were right all along.

With a single motion, the dwarves sank to their knees. Murdi and Thodris mimicked their gesture, even though Murdi found it repulsive to bow before a spell.

"Great Guntera," Gannel asked with a shaky voice as he kneeled. "Who is the rightful King that will lead our people wisely during times of chaos?"

The dwarf made of light pointed a luminous finger towards Murdi.

"Rise," Gannel commanded.

Murdi's heart thumped in his chest, blood rushing through every fiber of his body. Arms felt shaky and insecure, and legs threatened to buckle under the weight exerted by his muscles. Murdi had never felt such shock, such awe before. It was the flood of emotions that drenched one after seeing a vision come true. Patiently, he waited, trying his best to hide the emotions that welled inside him.

Most of the dwarves were shocked, but no one dared disobeying a god.

"If not prevented by your power, O great Guntera," Gannel pleaded. "Who would have led our people to ruin?"

The blazing figure crackled, and then pointed towards the throne, the sign of Orik's kingdom and power. Before Murdi could mumble something, the iridescent dwarf disappeared, the veil of darkness engulfing the room in an instant.

"Orik would have ruined us!" Gannel bellowed and beckoned Murdi to come forward. No ill words were said, no whispers shared. After a god had chosen Murdi, no one seemed to doubt him anymore. Gannel quickly signaled a priest to fetch a golden crown.

"Noble dwarves, brothers," Gannel said, picking the crown. "The Gods have spoken. Murdi, Grismborith of Az Sweldn Rak Anhuin, will rule over us. May Guntera give him the wisdom to overcome what Orik could not and power to resist the danger of temptation oozing from humans."

And then, the King was crowned, a golden marvel resting on the head of a dwarf with vision and courage to pursue a dream.

* * *

Murdi, Lord of Mountain Clans, sat before a rich feast organized in the room that once belonged to Orik.

"Ye made a wise choice Gannel," Thodris said, rising his cup of wine. "Murdi may be cruel, but he cares about our people more than Orik ever did."

Gannel laughed merrily. "The basterd was about to kill me own people and starve them to death."

"Yet he did none of that," Thodris interrupted, sipping his wine. "Have ye realized how much prosperous our clans became after Murdi awakened us from our stupor?"

Murdi smiled contentedly, glancing at the golden crown that lay on a nightstand. The private feast included his most trusted advisors and it took place while the other revelers drank and danced and sang.

Each Clan Leader, even Freowin and Havard, learned to accept and respect him. Their people were fearful and apprehensive after Orik marched to war, and Murdi provided them protection. Their people lacked food and ale, and Murdi provided them with it. After the four clans began working together, the prosperity of the dwarves increased vastly. Instead of envying another Clan's riches, they worked together to provide wealth for the whole dwarven people.

"Will be no clans no more," Murdi said. The two dwarves looked at him for a moment, then continued to feast on the spiced haunches of meat.

"Ye conquered us all Murdi," Gannel said. "Yer gonna be a king unlike any other."

Thodris raised his cup. "For Murdi, Lord of Mountain Clans."


	49. Chapter 49

_It is not far_.

Bursting into another dash, Eragon went around the mountain, its size and untamed slopes too treacherous to climb. Arya's consciousness shone like a dim beacon—the only one—that could guide him to her and hopefully, Saphira.

"Saphira, wake up!" Eragon coughed, his desperate need of air overwhelming his fears.

"Please wake up…" Even from a few feet away, Saphira's consciousness was beyond Eragon's ability to sense.

A low growl rumbled from Saphira's throat, followed by the mental touch and the voice which Eragon desperately wanted to hear.

_Little one,_ Saphira said, pushing her snout affectionately into Eragon's chest.

Eragon almost lost the balance his trembling legs provided, but the voice of his partner-of-mind-and-soul was enough to abolish even the most debilitating of weaknesses.

"I will pay for my weakness," Eragon bawled. "I will heal you."

Saphira growled faintly_, I am used to pain, little one, and my body will heal over time, whether you intervene or not._

Eragon was struck by Saphira's resolve. Was she willing to spare him of the energy he would use at the cost of her own comfort, or were her injuries as insignificant as she said they were?

_Don't be stubborn in such a moment, Saphira_, Eragon said, taking a few steps back. Healing you will not cost me anything unless—

His train of thought was suddenly cut off when Saphira moved one of her front paws, moving the whole length of her bulk to get closer to him.

Like before, she wanted to touch him with her snout, but Eragon quickly moved past her neck, denying her affection.

You are not being honest with me, he smirked as he kneeled before her paw to inspect it more closely. Two of the three claws which her lengthy fingers ended with were bended awkwardly. Small amounts of blood coated the base of the claws, covering the scales which protected even the unharmed ones.

Without wasting any time, Eragon spoke the words that healed the damage almost in an instant.

_You'll have to do better to convince me next time_, Eragon said, running his hand against her paw to make sure that everything was healed

_I spoke the truth_, little one, Saphira said, curling her neck. That wound would have healed by itself after a few days.

_Well_, Eragon said as he got up. _I prefer not to hear any more of these truths until I will see these unimportant injuries with my own eyes._

Snarling, Saphira took advantage of Eragon's lack of attention to push him to the ground. _Now you are stubborn_, she said, bringing her snout closer to his face. _Arya is the one who healed most of my injuries after the sky bested me, so you better save the little energy that still springs beneath that tough skin of yours._

_I won't, _Eragon rolled, escaping her field of vision. Combining both his agility and his keen eyesight, Eragon circled Saphira's body, looking for any injuries while evading her pitiful attempts to make him reconsider. Although Saphira's words calmed him a little bit, Eragon was horrified to notice the amount of scrapes, punctures and bloody patches that stained Saphira's scales. Her wings were slashed in numerous places, dying the membrane of her wings with streaks of red. Numerous gashes were still oozing blood, the scales of her hide too weak to protect the soft flesh that cowered behind their protection. What was worst, however, was the spread of these injuries. They were so many and covered such a wide area of her body to the point where they overwhelmed Eragon with their number. No part of Saphira's body remained untouched, except for her head and a good portion of her neck.

Eventually, Saphira stopped her playful attempts and extended her snout towards Eragon, seeking comfort. The look in her sparkling sapphire eyes and the affection she showed him almost brought Eragon on the verge of crying.

_Why, Saphira?_ He said, embracing the warmth of her snout. _Why do you want to suffer like that when I can rid you of this burden?_

_Because I know better than you,_ she calmly replied. _Scratches such as these ones bother a dragon for only a couple of days before they fully heal._

_No_, Eragon shook his head. _No…I cannot sit idly when I can do something about it._

Saphira tried to reason with him, but Eragon would not have it. Dismissing any of her attempts to convince him otherwise with short answers, Eragon moved towards her side, where two disturbing injuries were located—one in the midsection of her wing, and one at the base of her tail.

Without waiting for Saphira, Eragon slowly pulled her wing down, anticipating resistance. However, there was none. Complying with his wishes, Saphira slowly lowered her wing, blanketing the human with its velvety membrane.

Placing his hand over the bone that was positioned in a slightly weird angle, Eragon spoke the healing words yet again.

Saphira released a short growl, but that was all the trouble she had to endure for a bone that could have impaired her ability to fly.

Eragon, however, was not benefiting from the same luxury as Saphira did. By solely providing the energy from his already weakened body, he began to feel the effects of intense fatigue and dizziness; a dangerous combination for a spell caster who needed focus and mental agility. Dropping on his knees, the Rider crawled towards the end of Saphira's body.

_I am very greatful for your assistance, little one, but you should stop before-_

_I won't stop, _Eragon said, immune to the concerns that oozed from Saphira. _There are other ways, and the plants will provide what I can no longer sustain._

_Do as you wish_, Saphira added, bringing her snout closer to his form while her tail curled around protectively.

"I…will," Eragon voiced out his thoughts before he planted a shaky arm on the ground for extra support. Then, he extended his mind towards his surroundings. It was just like before, only that what he needed to do now was to exert a little force on any living thing to gain its energy. It was a technique known by only a few, but used with much ease once the caster would become familiar with it.

Eragon fit into such category, but he preferred not to abuse this skill unless the need was dire or there was no other way. And now, he had no other sources of energy at his disposal. He was desperate, and it was because due to this desperation that he didn't care who or what had to give its life in order for Saphira to feel better.

After isolating the chosen energy sources, Eragon began to pull on their energy turn by turn. Creature or plant, it did not matter what it was as long as it paid its contribution.

But there was a problem.

Eragon's energy reserves were not bolstered. That meant that there was no contribution. It meant that there was an issue. It meant failure.

Raking the soil with his fingers, Eragon tried even harder, but it was useless. In the end, his efforts were pointless.

Frustration started to settle in as a response to his failure, a nuisance that would make this whole process harder than it already was.

Eragon sighed, but did not give up. Focusing his attention on a single insect, he attempted to pull the life force out of it. An unsuccessful attempt it was, same as before, but this time Eragon could finally see – or better, feel—the reason of his failure.

A strange layer of unknown energy was placed between the insect and his consciousness, preventing any kind of energy transfer between the two of them. It was a shield, a strange, impenetrable one that appeared to protect any life form, be it plant or animal.

Eragon fell on the ground. How could he come with answers when he couldn't help Saphira? How could he help Saphira if he couldn't find such answers?

Such dilemmas outsmarted an individual such as him.

_I cannot_… Eragon thought. _I cannot drain them.. I am weak… far too weak… And there's blood… so much blood…_

_Then stop, _Saphira growled. _Why insisting on healing what will heal by itself?_

Eragon's resolution did not bend even as Saphira tried her best to make him reconsider through words of persuasion and physical contact.

"Strength?" Eragon said faintly, just as Saphira pushed her snout through the gap below his armpit.. "I'm still strong enough to do this…"

An invigorating riptide of energy seeped into Eragon's being, energizing him with a much needed boost of fortitude.

Then, a short growl followed, a low, deep growl that did not express physical pain, as Eragon heard earlier.

_Let that be the last one you heal_, Eragon, Saphira said, nudging him in the ribs_. If you don't stop now, we'll both pass into the void before you realize it._

Eragon lifted a shaky hand and stroke her snout. Head hanging low, he looked upon the marvelous dragoness that had her head placed on the ground beneath him. They way her scales were woven to both protect and decorate her intricate hide and the lustrous and caring sapphire eyes that looked into his were strikingly appealing, and only the thought of seeing those flawless scales covered in scrapes and wounds added more to his unfaltering determination

_I can't bear to see you injured, not when it is in my power to heal you._

Placing his hands on the tough soil, Eragon moved closer to her tail. He was convinced that he could stand up to his beliefs, but a few words and a self-deceiving determination could not unearth secret sources of energy.

With a low groan escaping his throat Eragon collapsed on the ground, his muscles too weak to support his weight. _I can't…_

_I am not that weak, Eragon. The sting of solitude is the only one that hurts the most. With the rest, I have become used to._

Eragon was yet again surprised when Saphira darted her snout towards him. She sought comfort into him, and even if Eragon was no dragon that could cuddle next to her and protect her body under a large, majestic wing, he could show that he was there for her in other ways.

And so, he placed her arms around her snout, gently stroking and scratching her scales. Saphira whimpered softly, basking in his gentle touch.

_I cannot understand the pain you are going through as long as you don't allow me to help. I understand that this is something that may not concern me, but I want to do something, anything to ease your suffering._

_This is not something you can help me with, little one_, Saphira said. _You look at it as an unnecessary weight, but it is not quite so. The urge to reproduce is something every dragon has experienced in its life ever since our species emerged into this world. _

_I am alone in this, and I would prefer it to be so._

_But there is nothing a Rider and his Dragon would not share_, Eragon pressed on_. Remember the teachings of Oromis and Glaedr—_

_I do remember_, Eragon, said Saphira with a bit of spite in her mental voice, _but I do not happen to agree with some of their teachings, nor the vision they had._

_Even if the bond that binds us is stronger than any other, our species are too different for us to completely understand each other_. _Dragons will never deny a mate as two legs sometimes do over words and material needs._

_A predator ends the life of others and sustain itself so it can reproduce when the time is appropriate. The ultimate goal of every species is to increase its numbers, and it's mainly because of the irresistible push that the instincts force upon them that they comply. You pink skins are the only ones that resist this rule, for no other creature can resist the raw impulses of such primary instincts._

Eragon was taken aback by Saphira's unyieldingness_. _Could dragons go as far as ignore reason completely? Could Saphira endanger herself by pursuing Thorn or Shruikan, one of the remaining males of her age?

_No… there should be a spell or something that-_

Eragon's suggestion was reduced to silence by the sight of barred teeth.

_I would never agree with something so unnatural and vile. My instincts are not to be blamed that one of your own went mad and obliterated my entire species. If the Riders never existed, then there is not a single trace of doubt that I would have found a mate._

_He will fall, Saphira, I promise you when—_

_I will not speak about this any further, little one. The seed of your intentions is pure and noble, but do not let it sprout into something different. This is not something we can go through together._

_You are not one of my kind._

Eragon could only watch, his mind too petrified to think. Then, after a few moments of silence passed between the two bonded partners, Saphira settled her head on the ground, coiling her tail and serpentine neck protectively around her Rider.

Eragon did nothing. His body lay unmoving on the ground, twitching only when an uncontrollable shiver would move into a different part of his body, warming it with the use of a primitive, yet effective method. But he did not have to endure it for long.

The bulk of Saphira protected him against the chilling winds, and the slightly moist breath that rolled rhythmically out of her nostrils provided extra warmth.

With all the comfort and the warmth he was provided with, it was no wonder that Eragon was losing contact with the reality. His depleted body was in desperate need of rest and recovery, something made persistently clear by the lethargy that gripped Eragon out of a sudden.

He could barely keep his eyelids open, lest move a limb. And he would give in to the overpowering sensation of tiredness were it not for one single thought that kept him alert.

_Arya…_

Eragon groaned and rolled onto his belly. Placing an unsteady arm on the ground, he tried to get his uncooperative body to stand up until Saphira opened her eyes.

_What are you doing, little one?_ She asked softly, bringing the injured wing that shielded him from the cold closer to his body. If it is warmth you seek, then I can easily provide it.

Eragon allowed his feelings of gratitude to travel across their bond as he was incapable of expressing them in another manner.

_The cold is not of bother_, Eragon said. _Arya, I want to see how Arya is._

Saphira exhaled a mighty onrush of heated air, she is doing what you were about to do. _Close your mind to any thought and rest, little one._

Eragon remained silent and watched how Saphira drowsily closed her eyes.

However, he was not going to follow her advice. Shaking his head in an attempt to refresh his weakened senses, Eragon began crawling towards a small gap between Saphira's wing and tail.

One palm at a time, Eragon advanced slowly, but not quite surely. Even when crawling he wobbled. His mind was first to betray a cruel adversary that would extract adj pleasure from those he bested, the ground began to harass him with spinning, unsteady motions meant to throw his weakened body off balance. Sight was no longer an ally, for spheres and flickers of light began to flicker in and out of existence, their erratic movements too quick to be followed.

But Eragon pressed on, despite the odds that allied themselves against him.

It was not certain how, or why Eragon found the willpower to keep going, but through sheer determination he managed to crawl under the wing that protected Saphira's other side and the elf that dwell under it.

Eragon blinked a few times, his eyes fixing on the familiar figure. He no longer remembered what the purpose behind his efforts was or what the shape in front of him was. What pressed him forward at this stage was an intense feeling of curiosity, like he wanted to confirm something that was lost amidst the haze of memory.

Resuming his exhausting efforts, Eragon crawled forward. Slow and clumsy, he kept advancing. He went past her feet, then past her torso, and, when he could finally look upon the face of the one he was so eager to reach, an overpowering blackness robbed Eragon of his awareness, and he collapsed without resisting it.


	50. Chapter 50

"Come to your senses already!"

Eragon thought he heard a voice, though he was not certain if it was real or not. He did not have to ponder on the bizarreness of the situation for too long, however. The slap that followed was real enough to confirm it.

"I am awake!" Eragon snapped.

Angela's face was the first image he glimpsed after he was ripped from the depth of his rejuvenating sleep. Eragon looked at her, then blinked, as if he had doubts of what his eyes were seeing.

"You're as confused as a newly sprouted mushroom, my boy," Angela said. "but not for long. My tea invigorates the intellect and removes any weeds of doubt."

"No! Not the tea—" Eragon vehemently opposed, but, as always, Angela was one step ahead of him and before he managed to say another word, Angela forcefully opened his mouth and poured a torrent of weird, gooey mixture down his throat.

Swallowing the substance that gathered in his throat, Eragon brushed Angela's hands aside and rolled on his belly, coughing and retching due to the nauseous taste and consistency of this solid "tea".

"I would advise against that," Angela interrupted. "That tea will remain inside, no matter how hard you try to expulse it."

"Why," Eragon spoke between coughs. "Why did you…disturb me?"

A visible frown formed on Angela's face, "the answer should not be veiled by any haze, but you are an exception to basically everything."

Mumbling in a silent voice, Angela moved her hands through her basket with alacrity while Eragon remained equally silent, pondering on what he just heard.

_Maybe being a Rider allows me to abide by certain rules._

_"_Was not the last treatment enough to speed my recovery?" Eragon asked.

"If it was, my boy," Angela replied, "I would not have to sacrifice this beauty."

Picking up a small, violet-with-red-dots capped mushroom, Angela sheltered it in her hands for a brief while before offering it to the one in need of its healing properties.

"I do not like the thought of having such a rare mushroom travel down your innards, but it is a necessary sacrifice."

Eragon's eyes analyzed the mushroom that rested in Angela's outstretched palms with reluctance. Was he supposed to eat it? Its cap was covered in tiny translucent dots and the visible roots that had yet to be severed dangled from its base like long, curled worms.

"You're supposed to eat it whole, my dear," Angela said and attempted to shove the mushroom down Eragon's throat.

"Give me a bit of time first," snapped Eragon, grabbing the arms that were inches away from finding a new home for the mushroom.

Eragon was answered with a loud growl of irritation that dwarfed Angela's voice. The herbalist stood her ground against the dragoness, probably arguing with her –Eragon did not know for he was not take part in the conversation—until Saphira forced her to leave through the use of persuasive intimidation, as Eragon liked to call it.

Then, before he knew it, he found himself yet again in Saphira's warm embrace. A dragon's menacing growl seeped the courage from anyone –Rider included—, and, if that proved to be ineffective, a threatening snarl would send them on their way. Fortunately, Eragon received the opposite treatment Angela did as Saphira settled her bulk comfortably to accommodate for Eragon's intrusion.

_It is a shame that her knowledge of herbs and cures matches her peculiar behavior, Saphira said. If it did not, I would have made a meal out of her before she could even speak 'mushroom'._

_I suppose I should find a way to thank you for your quick intervention_, Eragon said as he rested with his back against Saphira's warm belly. I don't know how longer I can endure her miracle tea or marvelous mushrooms or even her voice!

_I will keep her away from you if that's what you want, little one. She said that she will care for you, and that is the only reason I allowed her to take shelter under my wing, _Saphira replied on a calm, soothing voice.

_I realized that,_ Eragon thought. _But I should not bear such ill feelings towards Angela. Disgusting or not, her treatment had worked more effectively than I thought it would. It's primitive, but effective._

Eragon was pleasantly surprise when Saphira brought her snout to his level, nuzzling him with gentle motions of her snout.

_Your body does seem to lack any major wounds. It is a bit difficult to detect among the other scents, but I can hardly smell any traces of fresh blood that would leak from your injuries._

Eragon felt a pang in his heart as he was reminded of Saphira's current condition. The wounds that covered her body could not heal by themselves at such speed, so it was most likely that she was still in pain while he could barely feel any—save for the constant tiredness that numbed his senses.

It's good that you reminded me of that, Eragon said after he stroke Saphira's snout a few times. I'm not Angela, but I can heal your wounds through methods of my own.

_Don't_, Saphira said, pushing her snout further into Eragon's arms. _It is best to save your energy as our bodies recover faster than those of the frail two-legs_.

Eragon did not argue. For such a large and fierce being, the gentleness of her touch and the calmness of her voice could rival with those of a human. Being bonded partners, Eragon and Saphira could allow their feelings to be felt by the other through their Rider bond quite easily. Neither of them placed any value on the physical contact until the mating season was upon Saphira, bringing changes that altered her behavior. For good or worse, she began to lose the image of the proud, arrogant dragoness, replacing it with a softer one.

Saphira did change – Eragon could not deny that—but what regrets could Eragon harbor when Saphira was treating him almost like if he were her hatchling, conveying her feelings through physical means more often than she did previously.

Although she was irritating in the past, using licks as means of punishment, Eragon learned to appreciate the physical contact Saphira often displayed way more than he did—especially when his bones could catch a chill due to the gloomy weather.

Eragon was roused from his reverie when Saphira began to gently push him with her snout. Without objecting, Eragon allowed her to guide him until he found himself in his favorite sleeping spot. Curling her tail around him protectively, Saphira sheltered Eragon near her belly. A truly privileged position for one that did not belong to the same race as her.

_I caught the smell of dwarves and blood before Angela disturbed us both_, Saphira said. There is no doubt that they made a kill and settled their camp in the surrounding woods.

Eragon felt much better once he had access to such a convenient source of warmth. Not only that his shivering stopped, but the nauseous sensation also seemed to lessen in intensity.

To reward her for her treatmenet, Eragon began to scratch the scales on Saphira's snout, something which she greatly enjoyed.

Why should those dwarves concern us, Saphira? Eragon asked. I don't have the energy nor the will to search aimlessly for a group of dwarves that could kill me when I approach them.

_Don't be silly, little one. Not all the dwarves wish your demise, and chances are that this group can provide useful information,_ Saphira hummed in delight_. It was Angela's idea that we should bargain with them and obtain as much information as we could before venturing into their city to steal their tome._

Eragon thought for a moment. _That is indeed better than going around asking questions once we arrive there. But what if they don't know anything of importance?_

Saphira released a low growl_, they should. They live in tight communities, and their lengthy lives allow them to constantly store knowledge._

_Hmm, that might be true_, Eragon said, laying his body on the ground so all he could see was the velvety membrane and the bones which made up Saphira's wing. _But will it be Angela the one who will speak to them?_

Saphira lowered her snout for another round of scratching and petting until something disturbed her. Quick as she always was, she turned her head to the right and emitted a low growl.

Eragon did the same—minus the growling part and turned his head to see the lithe form of Arya crouching low enough to pass under Saphira's slightly lifted wing.

"I apologize for the disturbance, but there is a matter we should decide upon," Arya said.

She quickly exchanged glances between Eragon and Saphira, her emerald eyes seeming undecided until they settled on Eragon. Then, she opened her mouth to speak again.

"It is not necessary for Saphira to take part in the discussion if she does not wish to, but you should join us outside as soon as possible, Eragon."

Eragon was about to reply, but Arya already left. He had long passed the moment when words appeared to develop a will of their own and trap his mouth shut every time Arya would address him directly. Instead, what robbed him of the opportunity to speak were the visible wounds that marred Arya's beauty and the stains of red that dirtied her tunic and leggings. Her body was in a worse state than even Saphira's as some of the wounds were particularly ugly and had yet to fully close.

The sight of Arya struck Eragon like arrows coming from different directions. He was but a confused, helpless target that had neither the means nor the power to do anything about the predicament he was in. Only emotions such as regret, pity, but mostly anger came to his aid, but their help was a sword with no dull edges, a sword that could be blocked only by making a sacrifice; a sacrifice that implied pain.

What happened before I reached you and Arya? Eragon asked. For how long did you bear the pain and the discomfort these wounds brought you?

Maintaining her stoic composure, Saphira tried to contain Eragon's rising emotions by surrounding them within walls of calmness and serenity.

_I should bear the blame and the regret for what happened, little one, for it was I who failed. I openly faced winds I should have cowered from because I valued my skills higher than my own capabilities._

_That is how you see it, Saphira. You can be blamed for many things, but not from falling from one of the safest places on the saddle. I don't even know how that happened until I found myself dragged down by… something!_

_Speaking about this will do little to improve your predicament, little one. Let us focus on the present a bit more than we do on the past._

_There are few times when you are wrong_, Eragon admitted without much conviction. _I won't speak about this any further, he added before _crawling out from under Saphira's wing.

_At least she didn't argue_, he thought bitterly as he pushed the warm membrane of the wing aside with one hand.

The coldness of the night gripped Eragon's exposed body in its frigid embrace as soon as was halfway out. Placing an arm on the ground for extra support, Eragon immediately took notice of the hearty campfire that burned warm and bright only a short distance away from him.

_I can provide you with a more comfortable source of warmth_, Saphira suddenly intervened.

Eragon looked back, but Saphira acted much quicker than he expected. With only a push from her strong hind legs, she had Eragon between her front paws before he was able to react.

_Saphira, I already said that_-

_It's not about that_, Saphira said, reinforcing her words with a push of her snout that united Eragon with the surface of the soil.

While it was invaluable for the plants that drew their nutrients from it, the soil offered nothing for Eragon except dirt and debris made of fallen leaves and other plants that endured the cold temperatures.

Rolling onto his back, Eragon was met by the warm onrush of air expelled constantly from Saphira's nostrils, which dominated his entire field of vision. They flared and twitched, taking in and exhaling the air in short gusts.

I prefer an answer rather than a quick sniff, Eragon said, slightly angry at the sudden interruption.

Releasing a quick snort, Saphira retracted her snout slightly and fixed Eragon with her intense stare.

I want you to rest, little one, she said. Your body may not be marred by cuts and scrapes, but I can still see that you are in a worse state than I am.

_I'm not that weak, Saphira_, Eragon retorted. _If your eyes are as keen as your mind is, then you should realize that both Angela and Arya want me to go and speak to the dwarves._

_Then they should learn that relying on us for such trivial matters is not always the best of choices_, Saphira said smugly.

Is that your pride or your reproduction obsession speaking? It has to be one of those, as you clearly forgot that they came with me to help us find the Rock of Kuthian! I wouldn't have Arya make her way across the forest in her current condition just because you want me to rest under your wing like a hatchling would!

**Having vented out this way, **Eragon got up and prepared to dash towards the campfire, but was again stopped by Saphira, who lashed with one of her paws at Eragon's feet.

"Gaah!" Eragon grunted as he tripped and fell on the ground. "Blasted oversized claws!"

_Little one, I wouldn't force you to do anything against your will._

The pain in Eragon's left thigh dulled the importance of the words said by Saphira. There was only so much that could go on in his tired mind, and the pain was much more prominent – and annoying—than Saphira's suggestions.

Your suggestions bear little relevance to me. It's best to keep them locked in your mind along with your other thoughts, Eragon snapped angrily, pouring part of his rage into Saphira's mind, across the Rider bond. Why did she always have to interfere in such inopportune moments? Her intentions were not bad, and Eragon knew that, but it was the selfish thought that he would sacrifice Arya's well being for her and his stake that infuriated him.

There was no other way. He had to do something, and he did. Right or wrong, he did it on his own.


	51. Chapter 51

A resounding roar interrupted Eragon's train of concerning thoughts. Grimacing, the Rider covered his sensitive ears and kept them like that even after the sound of flapping wings replaced the painful volume of that lone roar.

Cursed noise, Eragon thought, noticing Saphira's form with the corner of his eye. She can roar softer than that. I know she can.

"Eragon!"

Hearing his name being called, Eragon focused his gaze on Saphira's blurry shape. The voice, although feminine, did not belong to her, but Eragon's senses were not at their sharpest.

"Eragon, we need Saphira's counsel as well. There's no need to send her away."

"You said I could," Eragon curtly replied, watching her shape slowly merging in the darkened sky. "But it doesn't matter. She went hunting and I could not stop her."

After he finished, the Rider turned to his right, where his eyes caught the sight of Arya. The princess was only a short distance away and was convering the remainder of it without too much trouble. Such vigor and alacrity could not be the product of her own body, which –Eragon assumed—lacked as much vitality as his own. And he felt worse than a dried potato.

"The skies are still dark!" Arya said. "Call her back!"

"It's night," Eragon said without a flicker of thought. He almost smiled, both because of the strangeness of the conversations, but more due to the nonsense he just belched.

He then felt it. A cold breeze that sneaked its chilly tendrils under his clothes.

And it suddenly made sense.

In that moment, Eragon did not know hat was worse: the wind, which he ignored until now or the menacing frown on Arya's face.

"This is more serious than witty replies meant to amuse children, Eragon. The storm is still raging above us and we wouldn't know unless—"

"Unless we fly!" Eragon cut in. "So stupid!"

Eragon turned around, an air of urgency present in the sudden movement of his body. Such dire revelation demanded alacrity and quickness, but wounded flesh cared not of such recklessness.

"Arghh!" Eragon dropped on his knees, his legs ckumbling like aged pillars under tremendous strain.

Arya hurried towards him, gripping his still shaking form.

"That way. She went that way, Eragon pointed with a shaky finger.

"Knowing her location would do no good, Eragon. As gifted as we may be, we cannot outrun a dragon."

The calmness present in Arya's voice allured Eragon. He liked it better when she replaced the serious and slightly demanding tone she used most of the time. This way she seemed more softer, almost human…

Leaving most of his weight in Arya's firm grip, Eragon savored the fleeting moment before obliterating it with more concerning affairs.

"Her mind is closed," Eragon said. "I can't speak to her even if I try my hardest."

"This shouldn't happen between Rider and Dragon. I thought that you, of all of his students, would listen to Oromis—"

Arya's voice was dark, but the last comment pressed Eragon in the wrong way.

"Oromis didn't know," Eragon complained. Arya's firm grip on his shoulder tightened.

"I don't know either," Eragon added. "Her behavior became too peculiar even for me to understand."

The lie worked, and it would have even when spoken in the ancient language. Eragon remained puzzled by the behavior of his partner-of-mind-and-soul, but it was not her behavior that had anything to do with her departure. Even so, it was a matter for Rider and Dragon to solve. As close as Arya was to Eragon, she did not need to know everything that transpired between him and Saphira.

"It's still foolish to close your mind from the one you are sharing part of yourself with."

"You wouldn't know how often it happens," Eragon joked, rubbing the shoulder where Arya's hand previously was. Eragon wondered where it disappeared until he felt a painful jolt coming from his thigh.

"What happened here?" Arta asked, her fingers running over the exposed wound.

Eragon groaned, his clenched teeth allowing only a weird hiss to pass. However, he did not stop Arya's actions. He would appear to weak if he did.

"It was sharp and lean, but its shape I couldn't see." Eragon threw in the first excuse that happened to roam through the space usually reserved for things that are thought, but not supposed to be said.

"That may be, but nature's weapons often inflict crude, superficial wounds," Arya said. "Nothing this deep and straight."

It didn't matter though. It was obvious what Arya intended to do when she lifted her palm above the wound.

"No," Eragon stopped her. "It's my foolishness that has a debt to pay."

Arya elegantly brushed his hand off with a quick but not delicate swish of her hand. "I'll mend it, even if it's self inflicted," she said. "You need every bit of energy if you are to speak with the dwarves."

The tone of Arya's voice sounded convincing, but it was not she that put a chain on Eragon's mouth. It was the compelling duty to do what he, Eragon Shadeslayer and member of Durgrimst Ingeitum was supposed to accomplish.

Saphira suggested that idea, and Arya was most likely thinking about it. It was no longer a choice, but an obligation.

"Arghh!"

Thoughts stole Eragon's attention for a mere moment, allowing Arya to practice her magic without interruption.

"So it's decided then?" Eragon probed with a simple question.

"It…is," Arya said through a pant, having finished the demanding spell. "I may have summoned you earlier so we could speak, but it was decided even before that. As a member of Durgrimst Ingeitum, you possess influence that none of us has."

"I'll take my leave then," Eragon said, getting up in an instant. "Gratitude for healing my leg."

"May the stars… watch over you and light your way," Arya smiled faintly.

Eragon already began his sprint, thus missing Arya's last words. It stung his heart toleave her alone after her invaluable aid. Both Saphira and him had their wounds taken care of by Arya, whereas she had none to cure her of the pains she was experiencing.

_She's strong_, Eragon thought as he passed by the shape of a gicantic fir tree. _She wanted me to finish this as fast as possible_, he assured himself.

The pace which Eragon moved at dwindled once his body became one with the cluster of trees shadowing the horizon. Having breached the outer layer of the forest, Eragon was considerably slowed down. Few axes touched the forest's inner parts. The trees grew too large, too strong for the pitiful metal to cut through.

Fueled by roots that dug deeper than any dwarf, the trees grew larger than any beast that dwelled here.

Eragon remembered the writings of the dwarves about forests such as this one, but it were not the trees that concerned him. Big, they were, but not as close as annoying as the vegetation sprouting at their base. There was an astounding variety of spikes that overwhelmed even Eragon. From minuscule spikes that latched onto the skin and remained there to larger ones that scratched and punctured, the plants had their defenses prepared.

Plants were worse, but bushes were the worst. _Spiked nets, _as Eragon called them, made it impossible for him to pass through, but he had no choice. He could take no detours.

Passing through the bushes was so grueling that Eragon had to use certain spells to prevent his skin from being shredded. Spells made it easier, but they were not the solution that solved the problem. The commodity of this easier way was far outweighted by the energy sapped by magic, forcing Eragon to find his way around.

Hope was the first to desert someone in these conditions, and Eragon was no exception. Braving the woods in search of something was tedious and difficult, but doing it in utter darkness was something only Angela would think of. Such foolishness was only characteristic to her, not to Eragon. There was only black to see in front of his eyes and only the whistling of the wind to hear.

_I won't manage to get back_, Eragon sighed, stepping forward half-heartedly_. I'm nothing without Saphira._

Without a moment of doubt, Eragon extended his mind towards her. She was his guide, his pillar, his half and nothing would be better than hearing her roar in the distance, a roar that told him she was still there, somewhere.

Nothing.

Emptiness.

Saphira's mind was shielded the last time Eragon tried to touch it, but now even that couldn't be accomplished because there was no mind.

Saphira was gone.

_Barzul_, Eragon trying to keep the bringers of solitude in a short leash. It was his sudden rage that caused this rift between him and Saphira, after all.

Eragon spent a short while collecting himself before proceeding with his search the same way he did before. Saphira could not help locating the camp from the sky, and Eragon's mental prowess let him down ever since he ventured into the forest. Like Saphira, the dwarves were immune to every mental contact.

By the time Eragon was led on the right path by the distant noises, he went beyond the point where he would care. There was no happiness, no relief, not even the feeling of accomplishment. All that passed through Eragon's head were more worries and concerns on how to finish what he started.


	52. Chapter 52

**I'm sorry to say that I lost a good chunk of this chapter. It included the dialogue with the dwarves, which was quite humorous. Anyway, here is what happened:**

**Eragon encounters the party of dwarves that refuses to share information with him. Enraged because of his failure, Eragon attempts to invade the mind of their leader, but the necklaces they wore around their necks prevents him from doing so. One of the dwarves shoots an arrow in Eragon's leg during the moment of weakness created by the magic of the necklace.**

**Subdued, with no means to retrieve information, Eragon helplessly waits for the dwarves to cease bickering about the plans they reserved for him. Meanwhile, Saphira arrives at the scene, and her presence stops the dwarves from doing anything irrational.**

* * *

Eragon's heart leaped with joy when he took sight of a glimmer of sapphire. Even between the deceiving branches and their adornments he could see Saphira's tentative approaches. She wished to land, but was not able to.

Eragon rose to his feet, using Brisingr's sheath for another purpose besides protecting the blade inside. There wa another clearing he took notice of during his search.

Pushing the sheath into the ground, Eragon hopped on one leg like and old cripple, repeating the sa,e procedure until the trees took him from view. The way was difficult, uncertain and far from painless, but for once Eragon chose wisely.

Being in Saphira's warm embrace almost felt surreal. And it could have been if the smooth scales were only a conjuration of a tired, addled mind. During such moments, reality often became obscure.

Saphira pushed her snout into Eragon's shoulder, demanding more attention. Eragon immediately complied, brushing her scales and scratching them like he did for a good while now. It was not a lie, even if it seemed to be one. The recent incident no longer bothered Saphira. This fact alone removed one of the heaviest burdens that weighted Eragon's heart.

_Let me lend you at least a bit, little one,_ Saphira pleaded.

I _ought you know by now that I'm a stubborn fool_, Eragon said.

_Then you leave me no choice._

Eragon leaned back, gritting his teeth. Saphira's jaws were not exactly delicate with the arrow lodged into his thigh, but then again, Eragon did not have much of a saying. Enough words were wasted denying the energy that Saphira was so willing to part, leaving room only for actions.

_That was a bad choice_, Eragon said, fists clenched in pain.

_I offered you many ways around it, and not just once,_ Saphira growled. _And stop moving that leg!_

Amidst the pain wracking his lower regions and Saphira's growls, Eragon chuckled. Seeing that immense maw tryng to grab a tiny arrow was something _very_ uncommon.

A low growl followed and Eragon,s smirk disappeared like a flicking flame.

"Arghh," his scream echoed through the forest.

It hurts less if you don't think about it, Saphira said in his mind. She then growled, unfortunately for you, it's not over.

Eragon thought nothing as he looked at the membrane of her wing. The second part of her treatment was about to start, and he would think about it. Probably more than he would like to.

"That not horse!"

The gruff voice made Eragon's body shiver furiously. Jolts of pain surged through his leg like wired brambles.

"Ghhhh."

Saphira's licking session did not help as much as Eragon would have liked. Dragon saliva might have had all the properties that Saphira listed, but it lacked the potency of a specialized mixture. Eragon's mind flickered inadvertedly towards Angela, but the strange herbalist was no longer his main concern.

Eragon felt his body squeezed closer to Saphira's warm belly.

_I'll rend their pitiful flesh if they come any closer_. Saphira then roared a fierce warning.

_You can't do that_, Eragon cringed, his sensitive ears ringing painfully. _Can't hurt them until they speak, and please no more roars._

"I'd trade me mead for tha' horse."

"Ye stupid? Horse be pretty, but mead tastes prettier."

"Ye head too drunk. Tha' horse be beautiful than me wife."

"It not a horse, ye basterds. It a gem beast. 'an't ye see the gems it has because yer taa drunk."

"It because too far!"

They won't comment until they drop dead, Eragon noted mentally, watching and hoping the senseless debate of the dwarf group.

They won't hurt you, Saphira said.

Eragon rubbed her snout with a long motion of his hand. I don't think they can with only their mugs. However, he said, lifting the wing membrane draped on top of his head, I would like to see them.

"Dere be tha basterd from tha camp!" Shouted one dwarf, pointing a large finger at Eragon.

"He left when I filled ye mugs with mead."

"That bad. I wanta axe 'im a lil' bit."

"Can't a now. Horse with wings defending him."

"She's a dragon," Eragon snarled, his voice filled with irritation.

"Dragon, aye," nodded the short bearded dwarf Eragon knew from earlier. Or…maybe not. His face bled to a red so deep that resembled Eragon's former blade, Zar'roc.

"Did ye say she?"

Eragon eyed the other two dwarves. They separated from their group and looked and pointed at Saphira, all while making various notes and compliments.

"Yes," Eragon answered abruptly. He turned his head, but the dwarf he spoke with was no longer in the same place.

Eragon's eyes darted in another direction, but the results were the same.

"It female."

"How day a know?"

"Ye can see her mine shaft andar da tail."

Eragon blushed slightly, knowing what the dwarves were referring to. Saphira, on the other hand, did not even seem bothered. With her large head resting on her paws, she stared carelessly into the distance.

"Been a while since I explored a mine."

"Fault of yer wife?"

"Ya, 'an some othas."

"An matter. 'an't explore this one."

"An' why ye sayin'?"

A thumping sound was heard, like something heavy just dropped on the ground. A typical dwarven curse followed shortly after. Whatever the dwarves talked about, it involved more than just words.

"It too dangerous, basterd. Hard slopes, narrow tunnels, rock ta soft ta climb…

Eragon tried to crawl away, but Saphira placed her horned head in front of him

_Don't leave my side, little one,_ she growled softly.

_But the dwarves…_ Eragon stopped. For some reason, it was improper to tell her that the dwarves were staring at her reproduction area.

_…they are fascinated by you, _Eragon continued, regaining his wits.

The feeling is not returned, Saphira pushed her snout beside Eragon, eyeing him with a large sapphire eye. Two legs are hardly worth looking at.

Eragon let her comment pass. She's thinking about a mate again, he told to himself. After so many days, the longing in her eyes was no longer unusual to him, but its intensity was slightly frightening. Sometimes, it became a carving more than a wish.

Suddenly, Eragon heard something drop. Something of considerable weight.

I want to see what they are doing.

Saphira quickly pushed the ground, her muscular legs lifting her bulk.

As expected, the three dwarves lay behind, no doubt in a position that allowed a good view of Saphira's rear. The stupid smirk did not leave their faces and their mugs and clothing were still there. All was like before… except an axe and a pair of dark leather leggings that littered the ground beneath the dwarf's feet.

That was not expected.

Brisingr was drawn with a short hiss. "What were you doing?"

"Me leg cover fall. Happens when ye least expect," the dwarf laughed.

"Cheap leggings always fall. Wife's fault?" Another one asked.

"Ya. Because of wife. And horse."

"Put them back on if you don't want to lose what's exposed," Eragon barked, blade pointed at the dwarf's lower part.

The dwarf let out a gasp, and his companions scattered.

"What de ya mean?" he asked angrily. "Got nothin' fo' thieves."

"Ye an't a threat to me, boy. Ye legs can't hold ye."

"Brisingr," Eragon whispered.

The dwarf drew back when the blade exploded with azure flames.

"Only the information you possess is valuable. The rest can be discarded with more ease than cutting flesh," Eragon sneered.

Such threat sounded absurd even to him, but he had to appear imposing in order to obtain what he needed.

"Ye an't kill me, boy," the dwarf stubbornly spat. " Lads like ye an't even good in da mines."

"I killed with this sword," Eragon pressed his words. "Believe me."

The dwarf laughed. "Believe ye? What basterd paints his sword like sky?"

Saphira suddenly appeared beside Eragon, snarling ferociously. The dwarf's courage quickly mellowed. Eragon couldn't blame him. Those fangs and that hissing sound scared him several times as well.

"What da ye want?" he asked, eyes stuck on Saphira.

"The Tome of Theldurin the Oracle," Eragon leaned on Saphira's foreleg. "Tell me where it is."

"I won't bargain for me life, but for someti' more solid."

Eragon raised an eyebrow. For someone who trembled to his very core, the dwarf was definitely bold.

"Teeth and claws I want," he said. "Nothin' more."

Eragon fell on his back when the surface he leaned on disappeared. The displacement of his body urt, but he was more worried about Saphira. It was peculiar that she backed down instead of snarling in defiance, like she usually did.

Then, across the Rider bond, he felt it. Fear and reluctance of something that could not be avoided.

She was considering the offer.

_NO! I won't turn to these ridiculous demands_, Eragon quickly reassured her.

He turned towards the dwarf. "I'd rather pull out your teeth and nails than do it to Saphira. You would have what you want and they will be from you as well, to carry around as you please." The soft voice latched with poison empathized his intentions better than rage could. It was dark..too sinister for one of Eragon's age.

"Gems be," the dwarf retreated a step. "Gems be it then. She has many, too many miss a few."

Bargain with him, Eragon, Saphira's mental voice suddenly rang inside Eragon's head. Our journey and what we seek are of greater value than few of my scales.

_No, no I won't—_

_He did not demand them from you_, Saphira snarled_. Say nothing except a yes to the drunk two-legs._

Eragon had no choice and agreed with the demands.

The dwarf was not only greedy, but picky as well. He also demanded the payment first.

After the terms were made clear, the dwarf instructed Eragon with the same authority as Nasuada. He pointed here, there, up and down, telling Eragon where to do, what to do and how to do.

Eragon seethed with each snap of Saphira's scales. By the time he was done, he thought of only one thing: to kill the dwarf, and do it fast.

Saphira growled when a large scale was violently plucked, leaving a bloody wound behind. The scale that previously covered her skin was now laying in the dwarf's clutch.

"Yer enough of 'em," the dwarf said approvingly.

Eragon looked with disgust at the sapphire mound that formed at the feet of this vile creature.

"Your tongue should be unhindered, then. Speak," Eragon commanded.

The dwarf kneeled and picked the scales one by one, depositing them in any available space—mug included.

"What ye think ye know been blown by Guntera's breath. Can't remember when it happen, but king changed."

Eragon frowned, and the dwarf continued.

"A nobody dat not many dwarves know became new king, by Guntera's will. He appear before mine people and make king new king because old king make mistakes."

"Ta be simple, because I an't know many, new king united clans. All dwarves now one clan and named Mountain Clans."

Eragon's teeth hurt under the pressure of his jaws. The story seemed too blund and unlikely as dwarves were not quick with decisions by any means.

Saphira seemed to agree with him as she snorted defiantly_. The dwarves would not have disposed of Orik that easily. He is one of the most honorable two-legs I met._

_Not to mention that he cares about his people by joining the Varden and helping their efforts,_ Eragon added.

"What of Orik?" Eragon asked quickly.

The dwarf placed another scale in the hollow of his tunic and looked at Eragon.

"Dan' know. Others care for kings, but not me," he smiled weakly and raised his mug. "Me mead and stones are me only concern."

"And the library? Is there any…"

"Nay. Mountain clans tolerate strangers no more. If yer life is of value, ye an't goin' 'ere."

Eragon sighed and lowered himself on the ground. He was thrown a quick look by the dwarf who quickly grabbed the rest of the scales in the embrace of his burly hands. He then turned around.

He was leaving.

Eragon sighed, warm vapors rolling out of his mouth_Maybe it didn't worth what I expected._

He then threw the sword dowards the departing dwarf and whispered the name.

"Brisingr."

Eragon wrinkled his nose when the scent of searing flesh reached him. It all happened in complete silence. No screams, no pain, no reaction.

A short growl disturbed the eerie silence.

_Why did you do it? _

_I'll explain at a later time._

As Saphira took the lead, Eragon stared at the crimson rivulets that added stripes to her azure hide,

_Does anything I do require an explanation?_


	53. Chapter 53

Eragon missed the saddle almost as much as the one who had it strapped on her back.

_I don't think I deserve all what you do for me_. Eragon kept his head down, _shielding his face from the besieging water droplets._

_Maybe you don't_, Saphira said. _But I won't refuse aid to a cripple_.

_You're a dragon._

_And you are a human, a fact that does not remove any of your present disabilities._

Eragon frowned, then brought a hand to his face. The rain was getting more intense. _Nor does it change your delicate grip, he chuckled silently._

_We're not meant to be gripping arrows and fetching swords_, Saphira roared loud enough for Eragon to hear. _How often do you do that with your mouth?_

_Never, as long as I have you to help me._

_Then you unwillingly would cripple yourself for the rest of your life?_

_I don't know how long would that be, but my appreciation for your help is more lasting._

_Was there a time when you refused it?_

_There was one time… but I don't dare mentioning it,_ Eragon teased.

Saphira's growl broke through the rain and the wind, but it was only after she dived when Eragon realized why she did that. Gripping the saddle with both of his hands, Eragon strggled against the sheer force of the descent.

_Up,up, please up!_ Pleads mixed themselves with other thoughts, rampaging through his head like bands of uncontrolled peasants.

Saphira flared her wings to their maximum length. The drifting winds flowed under her wings, stabilizing her position in an instant.

_Apologies for that, Eragon_, Saphira said. _The high currents were getting fiercer than I anticipated._

Although Saphira's calmness and smooth voice alleviated a few of his worries, Eragon remained a bit shaken.

_I almost fell,_ he managed to say.

_I would have caught you_, Saphira growled with obvious delight, veering in another direction. With his senses out of reliance, Eragon hoped that the various turns Saphira took were leading them in the right direction.

_I wish I could sense something other than rain and darkness in this wet obscurity_, Eragon noted bitterly.

_I am struggling as well,_ Saphira replied, her body tilting to the right while wings flapped steadily.

Eragon gripped the saddle.

_We're lost then?_

_Most likely_. _The falling water disperses any scent that does not belong to you._

_I feel flattered_, Eragon thought half-heartedly.

_You shouldn't_, Saphira said. _Your scent is far below the ones I find appealing._

_Care to elaborate on that?_

_It's complicated_, Saphira simply concluded.

_We'll leave it at complicated then and focus our efforts on simpler matters. Can you land somewhere?_

Saphira answered in the usual draconic way and angled downwards, this time more with more precision and accuracy.

_It's good to feel warmth again_, Eragon said while he repeatedly stroke the side of Saphira's snout with one hand.

_You do take wise decisions, little one._

_Not always, obviously_, Eragon laughed, then rewarded Saphira's compliment with even more rubs.

Each brush and scratch on the slippery scales brought Saphira great joy.

Enjoying herself at the expense of my fatigue, Eragon thought. The pulsing numbness and the pain in his joints was easily ignored.

After a couple more strokes, Saphira unexpectedly shifted on her side, exposing Eragon to the outside coldness.

"What…" Eragon said out loud. He was slightly stunned by the cold air, but amidst the pouring rain he noticed something.

"She fell asleep…" Eragon whispered. Even if it seemed unfair, he was at fault for rewarding Saphira for her flying services.

Still, something was weird, and Eragon could not help but notice that the puffs in her breath were more frequent.

Crawling towards her headm he petted her neck lovingly and turned around. His eyes widened slightly and blood invaded his body. With her wing raised slightly and a hind leg lifted awkwardly, Saphira's lower belly was more exposed than it ever was.

_Barzul_, Eragon's thoughts drifted towards the dwarves. It was ironic how he ended up in the same posture as those drunks. Besides, Eragon somehow knew what that position was for.

Driven by a perverse curiosity of the unknown, Eragon advanced towards her tail, which twitched and jolted in rhythm with Saphira's breath rate.

_She desires a mate more than I thought_, Eragon thought absent mindedly while he faced what the dwarves did a while ago. All the blood in his body flooded his face. His hands—even his whole frame—began shivering uncontrollably. His head pulsed with a strange mix of excitement, fear and awe. Rebellious thoughts filled Eragon's head.

And the fool would not back down.

Extending a shaky hand, Eragon touched the object of his torments. Intense warmth suoounded his fingers and the slippery softness caused them to slide further than intended.

Eragon felt his pounding heart explode out of his chest when a hissing sound reached his ears.

Awake and fully conscious, Saphira began licking what Eragon previously touched. And it happened while he gazed at it.

Eragon felt like dying with shame. When Saphira locked her sapphire eyes on him, even death was beyond reach. Eragon was completely stunned. Useless. Petrified.

Saphira approached with her gigantic snout close to Eragon's chest.

_You're unusually alert, little one._

_I heard something, something like a screech_, Eragon said, struggling to shield his mind as best as he could.

_You know I'll protect you_, Saphira rubbed his arm lovingly.

_I know_. Eragon placed a hand on her snout, then quickly hit the bolder one in the grass.

It didn't work.

Showing obvious interest in a particular scent, Saphira pushed her nostrils past his elbow.

Ripping grass and vegetation, Eragon viciously swiped his hand on the ground, staining it with everything he could.

Saphira backed away. _Calm yourself._

_What?_

Saphira used her tail and pulled Eragon closer to her belly, protecting him with a draped wing.

_You're unusually and unnecessary nervous_, she added.

_I'm not._

_Your body is trembling._

_Because it's cold_, Eragon said with ibvious confidence.

_There is a difference between physical cold and emotional unbalance._

Eragon was at a loss of words.

Saphira placed her snout on the ground beside his arm. _Two legs are weirdly ashamed of how the nature shapes and works._

_I can't understand that,_ Eragon said.

_You are the only ones who attribute an exaggerated sense of shame to reproduction and what it involves. You are afraid to be without cloth or hides to cover your body._

_Because that's normal._ _We can't walk exposed like that in crowds._

_Only the other two-legs share your view._

Eragon said nothing and huddled near Saphira's belly. He needed extra warmth.

_It is my fault, not yours_, Saphira continued. _My lack of control stirred your curiosity._

_Saphira, I was, I mean, I didn't want to do what I did. It just happened_.

Saphira growled a long, but otherwise soft growl.

_I am supposed to attract males of my own species, Eragon. You know you can not be a possible mate, but the way you touched and scratched my hide was not very different from what a dragon would do._

_How do you know that?_ Eragon asked, slightly curious.

_I do not,_ Saphira replied, flooding their bond with sadness and longing. _I did not have the chance to experience it._

_But Glaedr…._

_He was my mentor, Eragon, but not a true dragon. The two legs and the Riders altered him to the very core. Training and advices were what I received, and when I sought affection, he saw fit to attack me._

_That was harsh. I thought it was your pestering that determined him to do that. Oromis said so._

_It's not far from the truth_, Saphira growled mournfully.

_Don't lose hope, Saphira. You shall not be alone forever._

Being roused from his dreams irritated Eragon, even if Saphira was the culprit behind the disturbance.

_The rain had stopped._

Eragon heard Saphira's loud sniffing better than her thoughts. His mind was still foggy and rather lazy in understanding what was happening.

_You said I don't smell good_, Eragon said, taking advantage of this distraction to catch some more sleep.

Saphira's growl ruined it_. It is not your scent that interests me, Saphira said._

_Then continue your search_, Eragon added nonchalantly, closing his eyes for the third time. _I won't disturb your efforts except if you need me._

Eragon allowed himself to smile as he drifted into unawareness. He knew – and Saphira did as well—that he was completely unreliable for tracking and recognizing scents. With that in mind, Eragon could sleep and relax until…

_We should fly, little one._

Eragon groaned. He expected that suggestion after a couple of hours, but not only a couple of seconds later.

_Why? He whined._

_It is difficult discerning other scents other than my own_.

Eragon chuckled. _Nothing usual there._

_Dragons_, he thought, _always placing themselves above others._

_You are unfortunately right_, Eragon, Saphira growled softly, rubbing her nose against her paw. The scent of a dragon peaks during times fit for reproduction.

The thoughts Eragon tried so hard in purging from his mind returned, bringing the shame of his actions alongside them.

_Yes, I knew that_, Eragon quickly said. _You have seasons, like animals._

Saphira looked at him. _You are not wrong, little one, but two legs are different. How did you know?_

_I'm a very knowledgeable Rider_, Eragon laughed, slapping his hand against Saphira's belly.

_Then you must know the whole process of mating, Saphira said. Care to explain?_

Warmth invaded Eragon's body and his face bloodied in an instand.

_I don't—_

_I was just teasing, little one_, Saphira closed in and licked his arm with the tip of her tongue, which lacked the usual barbs.

_You're too obvious sometimes._

Eragon tried sleeping in the saddle, but it was too uncomfortable and daunting. The rigid material would not allow for a decent position, and Saphira's uneven flight disorientated even those who trained their minds against such inconveniences.

However, thanks to Saphira's bright disposition, various discussions and argues introduced mirth where there was only riredness and apathy. Good will lasted until the sun was high in the sky.

Coincidentaly, that was also when Saphira and Eragon stumbled upon their old camp. Regaining his vigor once he found himself in Arya's – or Angela's—presence, Eragon related everything he discovered during his nightly adventure, save for the intimate moments he spent with Saphira. The information was regarded in opposing manners by the two females, as well as their suggestions. Arya was concerned and serious while Angela dismissed and contradicted everything, even the details. She obviously did not trust the information of a drunken dwarf to be better than his alcoholic- filled breath.

Eragon bitterly forced himself to be the victim of her annoyance for as much as he could endure. Fortunately, the sacrifice sprouted more than weeds. Overly persistent when silence was required, Angela suggested and interesting and very bold move, which everyone agreed upon.


	54. Chapter 54

Eragon leaned against Saphira's foreleg, watching the few stray clouds that drifted towards the setting sun.

He felt tired and withered, almost like one of the herbs Angela spoke so highly of when the sun was still bright.

_Can you remind me why we took her with us_? Eragon thought not only to himself.

The dragon switched her gaze towards him, puffing a cloud of moisture that sparkled under the fiery bright rays.

_She just came along_, Saphira said, inhaling the cold evening air.

Eragon pulled his dirty tunic closer to his chest. _Yes, I know, but it wasn't me who asked for her company._

_Me neither_, Saphira snorted. I do not like flying with more two-legs on my back.

_Come on, Saphira_, Eragon said, rubbing her scaled foreleg. _We're not that much of a burden for a mighty dragon._

_You would know better if you were one_, Saphira said, her eyes sparkling with various sapphire hues as she gazed at the sun.

_There would be a way_. Eragon remembered when he saw the world through Saphira's eyes, but he quickly shook his head in denial. He did not want to experience everything Saphira felt or thought. There were certain thoughts she wanted to conceal, and Ergon knew better than violating her only sanctuary.

"Eragon."

Eragon looked behind. It was Arya.

"I want to talk to you."

Eragon was slightly distracted by her eyes, which stared kindly back at him.

"Yes, come here, he beckoned invitingly. "It's much warmer than…well, everywhere."

Arya briefly hesitated, but Saphira removed her doubts by lifting her wing.

"Thank you, Brightscales," Arya rubbed Saphira's snout, then disappeared under her closed wing.

"It is darker than I expected."

"You'll see warmth and protection once you spend more time here," Eragon replied.

"Probably," Arya's lips widened in a sincere smile. "It doesn't really matter if we can see each other."

Eragon waited for Arya to settle down before he spoke again.

"Warm, isn't it?" he chuckled when Arya inspected her surroundings with soft touches of her hand.

"It…is, but I did not come here to spoil myself." Arya became more serious. "The Varden should know about the reformation of the dwarven clans. And their knew king."

"We can scry someone who could spread the message."

"It is not impossible," Arya looked towards Eragon. "It requires little effort on our part, but the results wil be unpredictable and beyond our reach. There is no way to know how Nasuada will take this information, and if my people will believe it."

"But it's our word," Eragon said. "My word as a Rider."

Arya shook her head. "No. It's the word of a dwarf, and one that was not at the height of his senses." She frowned. "We only took claim of a drunk's advice."

"He seemed convincing enough, " Eragon said. "And did not stutter, nor mingle his words.

Arya gripped his hand, making Eragon shudder. IT was warmer than him, softer.

"I believe your words, Eragon. He might have not lied, but we cannot verify if what he said is the pure, unaltered truth."

Eragon looked at Arya, saying no other words. Her facial expression spoke for itself, anyway. Eragon learned to descipher the emotions encased in a mask of reflections and distortions. Or maybe it was Arya who let her stone-cold façade dull. Whatever it was, it did not matter in that moment because Eragon could feel the worry that crept inside her as his own.

"I have to go back to the Varden, to my people… I feel that I could help more than I do here."

"Finding a way to bring about the end of Galbatorix is the priority, and I need your knowledge and your support."

"You're thelast free Rider, Eragon. Oromis and Glaedr have granted you more knowledge than they did to any other elf while your skill with sword has beaten Murtagh once. I believe you are better prepared than you give yourself credit for."

"You forgot to mention that growing crops and working fields are two other talents I'll use against the tyrant," Eragon laughed.

"I would not know if you didn't tell me. That part of your life had remained behind along with your wold self," Arya said.

"It did," Eragon replied. Leaning further against the natural seat provided by Saphira's hind leg and muscular body. "But I don't trust only my opinion. Come here."

Arya glared at him. "Why?"

"Because you don't like the cold."

Arya was still glaring.

"And because I can't hear you well over Saphira's loud breathing."

Arya laughed. It happened so rarely that it seemed more like one of the many phantasms the mind is using to trick gullible fools. But the ethereal melody was not a false one.

"You're unfair to Saphira, and also wrong."

Eragon's hand increased its grip on the sapphire scales it grabbed. Could his gamble fail? Arya was among the ones who were persuaded the last.

"But I won't refuse you," she added with a smile. "Words travel the same, no matter the circumstances."

"It is not important on how they do it?" Asked Eragon.

"Not if you get the message," Arya said before leaning her weight into Eragon's inviting arms.

"At least let me explain you the rules of 'wheat and weeds," Eragon insisted.

"Not until we talk of what's important," Arya interrupted.

"This is important. It's the only game where cheating is the only way to win."

"Very astute, Eragon. We should invite Galbatorix and have a contest."

"I'd lose, and he'd definitely lose if Saphira plays. Cheating is harder than the game itself, and the only way to do it without being noticed is to undermine the rules, which are inexplicably and irrevocably absurd."

Arya turned her eyes to Eragon, seemingly interested in what she was hearing.

"What is the purpose of such game?"

Eragon smiled. "It separates the stuck-ups from the open minded."

"That is peculiar. I can't see why anyone would play it."

"I…don't know either," Eragon said. "A traveling merchant old me of it during the Baking Potatoes Roasted Tomatoes festival that took place Carvahall."

"It's ancient then," Arya shifted in his arms. " And I don't want to waste time. It is already dark and we didn't speak of what I came here for."

"I apologize," Eragon said, sneaking a hand under Saphira's wing.

She's very good at guessing the time of day, Eragon thought as he caught a glimpse of The Lazy Flame—a star which was the last to be visible on the night sky. Slightly below, Saphira had her head rested on the short vegetation, her eyes closed to the beauties offered by the upcoming darkness.

A tinge of disappointment crept up Eragon's spine. Saphira usually remained vigilant until Eragon would fall asleep. He and Arya rested under her wing, but they completely ignored her presence. All the attention they offered was split between the two of them as they talked about the origins of the Beor Mountains, their past lives , what crafts were they good at and many other things of relevance. Variety was plenty, but attention was strangely missing.

Eragon was gently tugged by a grip on his shoulder.

"You want to walk?"

"That isn't a bad idea, Eragon responded. He itched to stretch his stiff legs, and Arya's opportunity came at a very good time.

We shouldn't have left her alone," Eragon said as he walked beside Arya.

"She was sleeping, Eragon. We have been disturbing her tranquility long enough."

"Or we didn't," Eragon said, still regretful of his obvious ignorance. "We can't know until we ask."

Arya moved closer to Eragon. Her arms were crossed near her chest, but they did little in warming her. She was lightly dressed for the climate of the Beor Mountains, where temperature often plunged at night.

Upon seeing her frame tremble, Eragon moved slocer and placed his hand around her waist while he warmed her with the proximity of his own body.

Arya looked at him with a grateful smile, but did not say anything until a couple of moments later.

"Do you think of the Varden, Eragon?" she asked.

Eragon was not prepared for such a question. "Well, yes," he said. "My thoughts often drift towards them, but mostly to Roran and his wife… and Nasuada."

"What about the rest of them? The men, the soldiers and those who are not close to you?"

"I try to keep them safe as I can, but I'm not very concerned about what will happen," Eragon said without too much conviction. "The sooner the king is dead, the sooner they can continue with their lives. Their normal lives," he empathized.

"My concerns are deeper than that," Arya admitted and leaned on Eragon's shoulder. "My mother died and a few others as well when Galbatorix attacked them."

Eragon's hand was caged by strong fingers. "What was the reason? What could he want?"

"He's taunting us," Eragon replied. "Many believed him to be the king who ruled from the darkness, afraid of the outside confrontations. He wants to prove the opposite. He wants to discourage the soldiers by instilling fear and bringing suffering to them."

"Killing normal soldiers is a display of power, but he did not kill mindlessly. He had the chance to finish all the rebellion, but he wasted it deliberately."

"Because we interfered," Eragon cut in.

"What are we to him, Eragon?" He could have killed you if he wanted, along with the inhabitants of Feinster."

Eragon shuddered. "Feinster still shelters men who are a part of the empire," he said enthusiastically, pleased of his discovery. "Maybe he has spies who does not want to kill, or he cares about his loyal subjects."

Eragon couldn't help but chuckle, despite the seriousness of the conversation. Galbatorix, the man who slayed the entire population of dragons and killed hundreds of Riders was now concerned about common men.

"What of my people? We were the first to oppose him, and have done that until now. His hatred must run deeper than what we saw… what my mother saw before…"

"You are powerful," Eragon said stubbornly. "The king could not stand against the combined might of all the elves."

"It's a slight possibility. If the elves joined the Riders, maybe he would have been defeated before killing them one by one. We would have saved so many…"

"Why didn't they do it?"

"I don't have the answer. My people rarely talk of the darkness past."

"I think I know why," Eragon shivered. The gusts of wind were getting more frequent, amplifying the chill of the night. "We should return to Saphir aad begin anew the next day. Looking behind will only awaken unnecessary sorrow."

Arya agreed, and both of them headed back where Saphira was sleeping, soon to join her in the realm of dreams.

The upcoming days came and ended much faster than the previous ones. The temporary rest provided Eragon and Arya with plenty of time and various distractions. Continuing their quest was still a priority, but that could not happen without a missing piece.

Something hit Eragon when he least expected it, and it was powerful enough to send him on the ground.

"Silly princess and dumb Rider. I foresaw that he would succeed. That makes him better and you lesser!" Angela began to shout and giggle, waving and moving her hands in very strange manners. She was out of control.

Eragon groaned, trying not to think of the pain. His ribs always hurt less when he did that.

Straining his eyes to the left, he could see the form of a cat carrying something in its mouth. Something large, square-shaped. A tome.

"… brought it to me where everyone failed, proving that paws are better than hands. Paws soft as Vernal's carpet carried him back to me…" Angela continued with her shouting.

"Is that—" Eragon began.

"The tome which you can't read, my dear," Angela said, turning towards Eragon. "To be so curious, your mind so inquisitive… truly a rare thing you are, my dear sack of potatoes. Ugly, heavy of mind and useless like weeds. Also disturbing."

Angela shuddered and ran towards the cluster of trees that surrounded the clearing. "Don't disturb my deciphering unless you bring cats with you!"


	55. Chapter 55

Angela furiously rummaged through the rear, more bulged saddle bags where optional supplies usually resided.

"Aha," Angela exclaimed, her left arm rushing to the aid of the other. Eragon's eyes widened with astonishment.

_Sticks?_

Angela, after seeing his expression, favored him a smile and removed several wooden sticks thick enough to resemble pieces of a staff from the bag. After she was done, she stopped for a moment to inspect the useless bits of wood. Eragon opened his mouth to ask why was she in need of them, but Angela reached into the same bag and pulled out two medium sized steel blades. They were sharp enough to cut…

_ Blades for cutting grass and other plants?_

Puzzled, Eragon merely watched. Observing Angela was better than obtaining a useless and probably offensive answer.

Angela, focused on placing the sticks with their ends tied, did not observe Arya who crept close to Eragon, placing a firm hand on his shoulder.

"There aren't any edible plants around, and the deer are restless," Arya whispered. "While flying, I felt a herd of deer, and they've all dispersed before we landed."

Eragon looked at her inquisitively. "What relevance does that have?"

"Maybe it's not them, but something scared those creatures. Something that may be close enough," Arya said, turning her head towards Angela. "At least she seems to value precaution."

Angela was indeed hard at work. After she finished attaching the sticks next to each other so that they resembled a quarterstaff, she attached the blades to each end and murmured something Eragon did not understand.

_A huthvir!_ Eragon thought, looking at the two bladed staff curiously. The steel edges gleamed, touched by sunlight that scattered when it hit the clean, shining metal. As if confirming his thoughts, Angela smiled at Eragon and picked up her new weapon, holding it with the expertise of a trained warrior.

"Don't look so smug dear," Angela said, lowering the huthvir. "There are dangerous creatures out here, and a frail thing like me needs protection."

"I can accompany you," Eragon intervened, kindness present in his voice. "I wouldn't want a swarm of red-eyed rabbits to descend upon you."

"You would both distract me and step on mushrooms that are small and too important to destroy."

Eragon frowned, but did not reply.

"Don't walk on mushrooms and avoid entangling your feet in vine grass," Angela said and began her trek through the forest, her body quickly obscured by the oversized and deep vegetation.

"Do you really think she's going to collect herbs?" Arya asked, her empty stare towards where Angela used to be betraying her uncertainty. "There was no herb pouch attached to her waist."

"She's one being I will never succeed to decipher," Eragon concluded. "Whatever she does is a mystery to me, and a riddle to the rest of the world."

Solembum padded next to Angela, occasionally leaping to avoid a boulder or a fallen twig that blocked his way. The soil felt cold and moist under his paws, an extra nuisance that added to the numerous ferns and bushes that had pointy leaves and jagged spikes. The Beors were an inhospitable place for werecats and a doom to their beautiful and lavish fur.

This place always held a significant meaning for him, with its sounds and smells, shrubs and unearthed roots, moist ground that made him feel dirty and unkempt. He knew how important the Beors were for Angela, the reasons behind her rare visits, and for that, they were important to him also.

_Soon_, Angela said in his mind, her delicate touch and warm voice unchanged by the ravaging time, or past errors. _That's why precaution is necessary._

Solembum glimpsed at Angela, purring with contentment. He never liked humans. Their huge and frail bodies were weak and useless compared to the lithe built of a werecat, or other animals. It was humans and their nature that made the world what it was, never satisfied with what nature offered them. No, they had to assert dominance over everything and proclaim themselves masters over a land that never rightfully belonged to them. It was that pride an arrogance that made them so disgusting and worthy of extinction. Nature will eventually take care of them.

Angela, however, was special. She was so different that Solembum wanted to rake everybody that stained her by saying such insults and blatant lie to her. Maybe she looked like one, but that was a whole different matter.

Suddenly, she stopped and lowered herself to the ground, touching the soil with her paws with long fingers. A smile sketched on her face. Solembum knew what facial expressions meant to humans, but to werecats, they held no meaning. Angela was so used to blending in among humans that she even borrowed their habits.

_This soil used to irritate me when my feet were not protected by these footguards, _Angela said, looking at her feet. _I knew you will not like it. _Solembum padded to her and brushed his silky fur against her knees. Although he did not like humans, he relished the contact between his fur and Angela's warm skin.

_Soon. Very soon, _Angela reassured him and lowered her face enough so that Solembum could brush his tongue against her face. Even if Angela was human, he liked when she did that. The werecat purred joyfully, thrilled by the pleasant caressing touch against his fur. After Angela ran her hand across his back one last time, she got up, her weak human eyes scouting the area inefficiently.

_He's not here,_ Solembum said. _Don't strain yourself. _

_But he has to be somewhere, _Angela sighed. _I can't be wrong. I'm never wrong. _

Solembum meowed affectionately and walked forward. At his suggestion, Angela did the same. She was never wrong, but the eyes of a human were deceiving and often accepted nature's lies in order to preserve their host. Werecats were different. They saw the truth in everything, for they could see the Primal Color and easily ignore the strident, infinite in number colors that tricked the mind of lesser beings. In the present world, such ability was not even needed, and werecats had a distinct affinity to colors and beautiful things. Compared to the bounties of nature, the Primal Color was dull and unattractive, but important nonetheless.

They both continued to walk, the uneven ground with holes covered by fallen leaves failing to slow them down. Angela had a good balance for a two legged being, moving lithely through the cone littered ground at the base of a huge tree.

_He is there. _

Not far away, on top of a ridge that overlooked their location, sat another human. Angela could not see him from such distance, but Solembum's eyes were different. Just like a prey concealed among trees, Solembum had a clear picture of the male who turned around. There was no reason to hide their presence. Humans were still weak, no matter how feared they were among their kind.

_We should greet him. _Angela stretched her limbs and readied her weapon, holding it firmly. Their plan worked. The male shot downwards into a sprint, unsheathing his own weapons. They were two swords: one red and one blue, like Saphira. Why had humans colored their weapons if their purpose was the same?

Angela waited patiently, her weapon ready for the upcoming battle. While the human was still too far to discern his shape, Solembum stealthily crawled to a nearby bush to conceal his presence. This was Galbatorix's puppet, and dumb as he probably was, he wouldn't had figured that he was no normal cat. Not drawing attention to oneself was something werecats preferred, and this time, it was no different.

_What if he is tired after all the running?_ Angela asked. _I think that's something we haven't thought about. _

Solembum said nothing. He did not have to reply. The human almost reached Angela, and for a brief moment, Solembum wondered whether this human will talk with her or just attack. The answer was obvious when he increased his speed and slashed obliquely with both of his swords. He attacked.

"How rude!" Angela chuckled, stepping to the side to dodge the attack. "That means you're even more stupid than Eragon. Maybe there's something in your blood, yes..."

"I don't know you," the human said, resuming his attack. "But if you know Eragon, then you must die to grant him life."

Murtagh unleashed a flurry of fast attacks, his two swords dancing skillfully due to his aggressive battle stance. Angela swiveled her weapon and ducked while one edge hit a blade and rotated her wrist, cleaving at the enemy's legs with the other edge. The blade stopped in midair. Wards.

Murtagh brought down his swords, but Angela used her weapon to block his attacks and used the momentum to slash at Murtagh's exposed chest. This time, instead of blocking his attacks, Angela jumped backwards. He could not attack; his weapons were short, but Angela's situation was different.

"My body is not my own," Murtagh lamented pathetically. "Galbatorix told me what must be done, and nothing can change that."

"You can't know until you try," Angela chuckled and acquired her specific fighting stance, her body leaned forward and the weapon held at her back almost vertically. "Your future is likely to be different, for you have something he doesn't."

Angela struck at the enemy with quick, terse attacks, like a snapping eel. Murtagh tried to fend her off with wide, sweeping counters, but the staff was unknown to him, and Angela maneuvered it with great expertise. By dodging one blow, Angela slashed with her weapon at a sword while the lower edge blocked the other. Before Murtagh had a time to react, she pushed violently and Murtagh was forced to relinquish the grip on the red blade. It was too fast for him, and the choice had been made. He ducked, going down on one knee, letting Angela's weapon cleave empty air.

Murtagh recovered and attacked with renewed vigor, swinging his sword in a flurry of strikes. Angela aggressively struck out with broad, sweeping blows. Murtagh pulled away from one of these, Angela's the weapon passing just inches before him. He timed his next move, then dashed forward, ducking underneath Angela's strike and grabbing the sword he discarded earlier.

Feeling that he holds the advantage, Murtagh lashed out and used his left sword to distract Angela by stabbing near her ribs. With the staff unable to reach the right sword in time, Murtagh raised his left sword to knock the protective staff aside and stabbed with strength and confidence. Angela chuckled and easily knocked both of the swords from his hands with a flick of her staff that was now pointed towards Murtagh.

_Clever, _Solembum said, raiding a dirty paw to clean it. _But quite unneeded._

_It's better to remain subtle, _Angela bragged. _This way, he will bother us no more._

"Isn't that right?" Angela pressed her words, frowning. "Will you bother me again?"

"N-no," Murtagh said, drawing back in reflex. Angela's long weapon looked quite intimidating, especially in her hands. Humans…they made tools to compensate for their weakness. Regrettable and disgusting creatures indeed.

"My oath," Murtagh tried to explain, telling Angela what she wanted to hear. When cornered, the prey would do anything to escape the predator. How could humans call themselves dominant as long as they could lower so much, just to survive? Every creature accepts its fate, yet humans desperately try to fight it, using any means necessary.

"It does not imply death, but defeat."

Angela was not convinced. It was as it should be, and lowering her weapon might be a mistake. She did not.

"Maybe Galbatorix is no fool after all," Angela said, lowering her weapon. Murtagh blinked incredulously, but appear relieved. "Alas, he is not of interest to me. That's why you will promise something to me. Something deep, something that cannot be undone," she smiled deviously.

"An oath in the language of power, perhaps?"

Murtagh appeared shocked, his frame appearing unsteady as he took a step back. "The Ancient Languange?"

Angela laughed. "It's not that old, really. There have been others before the elves, but that will dissolve our dilemma."

"Why should I do as you say?" Murtagh spat, taking a step forward. "You may be as cruel as Galbatorix, or even worse than he is."

With a graceful swing of her arm, Angela flicked her weapon through the air, the blade passing dangerously closed by Murtagh's face. "I need no pitiful throne, nor do I have an interest in power. All that matters to me is my destiny, and ironically, you play a part in it."

"You are no mere human," the human said, his eyes glancing at the fallen swords for a moment before locking with Angela's. "You are more than that, and when I was almost certain of victory, you somehow evaded an attack that shouldn't be dodged. It could not be dodged!" He yelled.

"You're quite astute, just like everybody who seems to say that. But what exactly makes somebody human? The emotions, bonds, or perhaps, imperfection?" Angela said nonchalantly.

Murtagh said nothing. How could humans find an explanation to their own flaws? They were so deeply embedded into their own nature that they became part of themselves. Their ignorance could go as far as blaming everything, save for their faults. A race that created and accepted an illusion to block out the reality was truly disgusting.

"Even the most resilient of minds can be tricked when you find its craving," Angela said, her fingers tapping the wooden frame of her weapon.

Murtagh raised his head. "So it was magic?"

Angela rolled her eyes. "Why are Riders so stupid? It makes sense, why elves forced the dragons to obey them. You needed someone smart to guide you, because you can't do it yourself."

Murtagh clenched his fists, his body adopting a fighting stance.

"Now, you will do what I say," Angela demanded, readying her weapon. "Don't trade your destiny for fleeting emotions." While keeping close watch on him, Angela kicked the swords away, removing any hope of retaliation the human must had had.

"Will you do what I tell you?" Angela asked in the language of power.

"Yes," Murtagh responded, using words that belonged to the same tongue.

"Not rebellious like your brother, I see. That's why your destiny will carry you in different ways. But to make it possible, you will need to…"

Solembum got onto his feet, his interest suddenly piqued. Witnessing one's destiny being reinforced was a glorious thing indeed, even if the subject was a human. No human could change his fate, but everybody needed a guide.


	56. Chapter 56

"It wasn't a good idea to let her wander off," Eragon said on a concerned voice, abandoning the fallen log that supported his weight. "She did not take the huthvir with her because of animals."

"Her decision," Arya said, sitting comfortably on the small wooden support, now that Eragon got up. "She doesn't care about you. Why do you care about her?"

Eragon squinted at the ruddy setting sun. The white formations of clouds mixed with nuances of orange, creating a spectacle of warm colors. "I don't know," he sighed, pacing around nervously.

"She is unpleasant and rude, but her help is invaluable."

They were both sitting in a glen, the same location where Saphira left them to go on a hunt. The tall, imposing trees were still a marvel to watch at, and occasionally, a squirrel would clamber them in search of nuts.

"What about Saphira?" Arya cut in sharply. "Shouldn't you be concerned about her?"

Eragon sighed, eyeing her. "There's nothing to be concerned about."

"Life had taught me that…" A muffled swish that was too loud to be natural summoned Eragon's attention.

With lightning fast reflexes, he pushed Arya hard enough to make her stumble like a twig behind the log and unsheathed his sword.

"Brisingr!" The blazing sword cut the thick wooden branch that came towards him with uncanny precision, the smoldering remnants falling uselessly besides him.

"Arya…"

Eragon did not even finish his warning in time. A shadowy figure—the one that launched the wooden missile towards him—was now upon him. His two swords locked with Brisingr, but the might of two arms overpowered Eragon's strength.

Lurching to one side to dodge the relentless attack, Eragon retreated behind a tree. The swordsman did not follow, offering Eragon a much needed pause. Steady thumps boomed in Eragon's ears, his heart beating frantically.

The swordsman was skilled, his expertise surpassing the one of a human. Eragon glanced at his arm, panting due to fear. Brising's pommel was slick with sweat, unsteady in his hand. It was only a defensive parry, yet Eragon's hand pulsed with pain from that vicious strike.

The wood creaked, splinters exploding, bouncing against his wards in a brownish cloud. Eragon did not twitch, despite the sudden pain in his cheek. He just stared with wide eyes at the scratch that pierced the tree, breathing the heavy scented air of burning wood. Tiny embers shifted around Brisingr, hovering around the fire that roused them to life.

Recovering from the abrupt shock, Eragon swung the fiery blade against the wood. Brisingr ran smoothly through the weak bark, until it met steel. Eragon shuddered.

The lumbering tree swayed to the side. As the trunk fell, Eragon glimpsed a smooth face, two dark eyes barely concealed by falling ebony hair. A mighty thud forced dust and debris to rise in ovation for a fallen tree. Splinters rained on top of the two warriors, the fire and the glistening metal embracing under the gaze of their owners.

"At least allow me to get the other sword back," the swordsman said, retreating his sword.

"Brisingr," Eragon whispered, wiping the trails of blood from his cheek. This man did not kill him. Undoubtedly, he could, for he was evil. That ominous stare bespoke of sinister intentions, of inexorable oaths. They had demands that none could ignore. Least of all Eragon's older brother.

"This means I can?" he asked, eyeing Brisingr.

Eragon shove the ruby blade aside, forcing the swordsman to jump backwards defensively.

"Murtagh," Eragon said, feeling spite flowing down his lips, "Riders curse me if I let you do that."

"I am already cursed," Murtagh said. "Once you settle with madness, everything makes sense." He pointed the brown sword—the other Rider sword—at him.

"And you may not know it, but you are a huge burden."

"Do not patronize me," Eragon spat. "If you settled with your death, many could have still lived."

"Like?" Murtagh inquired, raising an eyebrow.

"All those dragons, the Varden, Oromis!" Eragon said, uttering Brisingr's name under his breath. Words gave birth to twirling flames, subdued by the magic of the sword.

"Live my life," Murtagh said. "Be a slave, know no freedom. Then you could not be so smug."

"Let me release you," Eragon said with softer, more compassionate words. "Your pain does not have to breed suffering.

"I'm the older brother," Murtagh cut sharply. "That would not be proper."

Eragon gritted his teeth, strengthening the grip around Brisingr.

"Besides, we have to fight," he said. "And I need my other sword."

Murtagh tried to slither around Eragon, but Brisingr blocked his path promptly.

"That cut," Murtagh trailed a finger over his cheek, "it hurts more than it looks like, doesn't it?"

In that moment, Eragon shrugged anything that made up kindness, sympathy or pity for his brother and lunged at him.

Murtagh groaned, narrowly evading Eragon's blazing strike. The sweltering air around Brising churned and hissed. The hairs on his arms had already been singed.

Through squinted eyes, Eragon barely saw Murtagh's own swings before Brisingr—like a liquid fire—prevented them from inflicting damage. Though it slowed Murtagh's vicious attacks by pushing him into a defensive array of swings and dodges, Brisingr was as much of a surprising asset as it was a liability.

Murtagh no longer seemed daunted by Brisingr. His motions regained a majestic fluidity. The thrusts, swings and swipes of blade became more precise. For Eragon, it was harder to parry a lower strike when the flames of Brisingr threatened to gnaw at his leggings. After blocking an attack that aimed at his shoulder, Eragon called Brisingr's name.

As soon as the flames quenched, Murtagh swung to Eragon's head—a deadly, fast but predictable slash—Murtagh used the distraction offered by Eragon's parry to dash towards Zar'roc.

Eragon sneered with sinister satisfaction.

"Wind choke," he uttered.

Nothing happened. Murtagh's wards deflected his spell. Eragon frowned, drawing forth most of his energy.

"Crumble," he commanded the fallen tree, the rocks, the earth. But nothing happened. Grunting with irritation, Eragon mentally tackled the wards of this strange land in hope that his training and power would suffice.

"You want to defeat Galbatorix," Murtagh said. Eragon jolted back to reality from his failed attempts, brandishing his sword.

With two Rider swords, Murtagh walked with firm steps, displaying his dominating appearance. Steeling himself, Eragon did not falter. Murtagh may have been the older brother, but Oromis passed the legacy of the Riders to Eragon alone. In his arm, he bore not Brisingr, but the fate of Alagaesia itself. To protect them, Eragon wished, by defeating Galbatorix.

"We are siblings, Eragon. Darkness claimed me, but you seek it willingly." Murtagh's eyes narrowed. Eragon saw his resolution, the starkness in his stare "Dispose of it."

Eragon pursed his lips. "If I don't kill you, Galbatorix is going to use you."

"I am your brother."

"You are my enemy," Eragon retorted.

Murtagh sighed, the grip on his swords tightening. "Better be prepared, Eragon. There are certain forces and entities that want something from us."

When Eragon parted lips to speak, Murtagh's powerful right-handed blow brought forth a moan instead. Metal screeched with fury as sapphire and ruby met in a series of terse attacks. Where Zar'roc sneaked, Brisingr prepared to intercept it. When Brisingr wriggled past Zar'roc, the brown sword shove it aside.

With one sword, Murtagh fended off Eragon. Against two, Eragon could barely keep up with the pace of the fight. The storm of swords surrounded Eragon. Each narrow dodge or fortunate parry was dwarfed by a much too fierce retaliation. Murtagh aimed at his neck with a sword, while the other arm slyly slid to his legs. By blocking the first blow and jumping sideways for the second, Eragon displayed a vulnerability that Murtagh immediately tackled.

Locking all three swords together, Murtagh pushed Eragon backwards and used his shoulder to send him to the ground. Even then, the fight was not over. From his lower position, Eragon intercepted most of his strikes, and a well placed thrust allowed him to stand on equal ground once again.

The series of attack repeated. With fatigue slowing his reactions, each attack seemed faster, more vicious. Brisingr fended off the swords well on its own, but the weakness that dwelled in Eragon's legs betrayed them. One slip in concentration, a single reckless sidestep, and Zar'roc connected with Eragon's thigh.

Blood rushed out in crimson rivulets, the hot liquid trickling down his leg. Murtagh spun fiercely, ducking under Brisingr, hitting it with Zar'roc when the grip feinted. Eragon gritted his teeth.

His wrist throbbed with pain, and the rest of his arm felt numb due to effort. Valiantly, he lunged forward, thrusting Brisingr forward. Zar'roc tackled it down, and Brisingr fell. A coldness, veiled in a lost memory, touched Eragon's neck.

"Blast it," Murtagh rolled his eyes. The cold, alien surface withdrew from Eragon's sweat dripping neck, bringing forth a much too tense exhale.

"Instead of giving up, use a spell that distracts the opponent."

Eragon heard his words, but hate urged him to let them pass by idly. Murtagh—Galbatorix's slave, the epitome of selfishness—was now giving him advice? Just like his master, Murtagh merely mocked the last Lead Rider before the oaths forced him to act.

While Murtagh continued to spew his poison in the form of haughty advices, Eragon voiced a healing spell loudly, grabbing a handful of dust with the other. Too focused on lecturing him about improper spells to mend scrapes, Murtagh did not seem to notice his treachery.

"Brisingr," he mumbled. Azure flames engulfed the blade, scorching the earth under it.

"That was unexpected," he grunted, eyeing the sword. It was the distraction Eragon was waiting for.

Lashing out, Eragon threw the earth particles at Murtagh's face, his right fist tight with fury. Although a Rider, Murtagh still possessed the fragility of men. Memories of punched victims still lingered in Eragon's mind, and his calluses were a testimony to his destructive power.

Lithely, Murtagh moved sideways and grabbed Eragon's arm, twisting it. The pressure almost snapped the limb from Eragon's body, but he merely groaned.

"That, I expected," Murtagh said, pushing him to the ground like a hay doll.

Beaten and defeated, Eragon squirmed restlessly to his feet. Bulged, bloodshot eyes protruded from his reddened face, staring at Murtagh malevolently. A constant, laborious pant cooled his boiling blood, forcing the veins at his temples to subside.

Not far away from him, Murtagh shook his head. Eragon no longer paid attention to him, however. Finding Saphira before Murtagh fled obsessed him. With her help, Eragon was able to reclaim Brisingr and overpower his brother.


	57. Chapter 57

Watching a dragon fight a small, agile human unnerved Eragon.

Saphira was fierce and majestic. Her claws could tear Murtagh apart. Teeth were able to do that even better. For that to happen, she had to catch him though. And Murtagh was a puny yet formidable opponent.

_He's stalling_, Eragon noticed. _Waiting for Thorn._

From atop the saddle, it was little Eragon could do except healing Saphira. His occasional blows were swiftly blocked by Murtagh, who seemed to use his swords more as a defensive steel wall.

The way Murtagh danced through Saphira's attacks was more of a display of skill rather than an actual fight. Murtagh did not harm Saphira, and Saphira could not harm Murtagh, for he was too nimble for her brutish strikes.

No, Eragon said urgently when Saphira recoiled to breath flame. Across their link, Eragon felt her confusion, but there was a mix of acceptance into it. Not because of trust. They had already faced enough battles to respect and rely on their judgment and recklessness alike.

Below, Murtagh smiled.

"But if I wanted to use her flames to conceal my swing, then why did not I attack earlier?"

Eragon snorted, watching him intently.

_He is toying with us_, Saphira said in his mind, ceasing the onslaught of claws and teeth. _Maybe he and Thorn escaped their bonds._

Eragon shared her confusion, but sternly shrugged away the craving in her voice when she mentioned Thorn. A male dragon, a potential mate. Being in heat, Saphira's loneliness drove her as far as befriending the Rider and dragon that had come to capture them, and Eragon was not keen in allowing that to happen.

Saphira perked up, watching the sky with an obvious interest that Eragon frowned upon. Almost silently, Thorn glided above them, landing roughly behind Murtagh. The trees rustled anxiously at his arrival, the wind howled through the forest.

_Thorn will not expect a fast, brutal attack at the start, and Murtagh is too powerful. The more wounds we inflict in Thorn's hide, the weaker his Rider becomes._

Saphira snorted, her nostrils flaring. Vapors mixed with warm rolled out of her snout, dissipating into the still air.

Eragon was facing an enemy. Tension brought furrows on his brow. His fingers knotted around the saddle and Brisingr, tapping with apprehension. Saphira, however, seemed to relish the agonizing silence.

She and Thorn stared at each other, their tails swishing, coiling, and twitching. Excluded from a possible share of words, Eragon slapped Saphira's neck.

_Saphira! _He grunted urgently.

Silence.

Thorn growled softly—a strange sound that, to Eragon's ears, resembled some sort of moan. His posture lacked strain, and claws barely tore the earth. A pressing thought suddenly burst into Eragon's mind.

_Charge them_, Eragon said excitedly, clutching Brisingr_. Pin Thorn down._

Saphira sheltered the flow of emotions that Eragon grew accustomed to. One moment, he could feel her sadness, the blurred excitement spurred by instincts, and then, it all stopped. Gone, snuffed out like a candle's flickering crown.

Eragon felt numb with shock. Saphira's instincts were stronger than he expected. It was not a matter of choice anymore to her; with a male dragon in front of her, Saphira was exposed to his whims. What could Eragon do, when Saphira could not accept reason? Help came from the most unexpected source.

"You cannot defeat me on land," Murtagh said. "But Saphira has yet to fight Thorn."

Eragon's eyes narrowed. Witnessing the confusion on Murtagh's face provided a much needed comfort. The less he knew about Saphira's loneliness and desperation, the tougher his impending predicament. After all, Thorn was a male. A confused one, by the looks of it. By exploiting this distraction, Eragon could turn the battle in his favor.

"There, in the sky," he pointed over yonder, "I am your brother no longer."

Eragon shook his head. _You never were._

"Better defeat me."

The hardness in his voice motivated Eragon, offering a smoldering fire fuel to burst into a blaze. Murtagh came to terms with his own demise, but he wanted to die in his own way, fighting like a Dragon Rider.

Thorn propped his feet into the earth, then slapped at the air with powerful wing strokes. Shortly after Thorn burst out from the canopy of the trees, Saphira flapped her wings, darting swiftly towards the ruby dragon.

_Do we have to fight_?

Eragon squinted, following Murtagh's trail closely. Coping with Saphira was difficult sometimes, but her doubts began to infuriate him. In the sky, among the whistling wing, disagreements proved perilous in the past. There was no telling how Saphira would suffer Thorn's death. Eragon could only hope that his judgment was the right one.

_Their lives bring death to others, _Eragon said calmly. _Our failure over the Burning Planes carried its doom to our masters._

_That wasn't their doing. _

_Thorn can't be your mate—_

A shadow passed the corner of his eyes.

Saphira roared. A sudden pain welled in Eragon's torso. Cringing, he shifted in the saddle and whispered Brisingr's true name. Distraction bested them both, allowing Thorn to latch onto Saphira's side.

Saphira swatted her tail, smashing it into Thorn's hovering form. With no means to deter the ruby dragon when Saphira couldn't, Eragon gritted his teeth and waited until her squirms would pay off. Using magic rendered him weak, and Murtagh was the better swordsman.

Where did that leave him?

He watched Saphira digging her claws into a ruby haunch, blood spurting out in unison with the roar of pain. She skillfully maneuvered around him, coiling her neck around his maw to reach the pointed horns. By holding them tight in her jaws, her limbs could rake his vulnerable belly freely. Saphira tore into his shoulders using her forelegs, but the gashes lacked depths. Flaming Brisingr could do better, but Eragon was merely a burden on her back.

Thorn quivered, growling in pain. His struggles overpowered Saphira, who was forced to relinquish her grip on his horns. Now that his head moved freely, his maw arched towards her neck, pinning her sideways in an uncomfortable clutch. Eragon felt her pain as his own, only that it lacked the stinging sensation, the fiery torture.

Thorn's ruby hide did well in masking the blood, but Eragon could tell that Saphira lacked vigor. Her fierce façade dulled. It became soft—wan, compared to the battle rage that Eragon once regarded with awe.

This wasn't his Saphira. That Saphira wouldn't settle with lies, deluding herself with false promises. That Saphira was the fiercest, most formidable dragon. Her cold calculations and wit brought them another day.

But now, it all crumbled in front of him. This Saphira scratched—not lacerated her opponent. This Saphira hummed in joy at the sight of an enemy and relished the proximity between her and Thorn. Instead of a battle, a dragon's game unveiled before his eyes.

Thorn's wing flapped dangerously close to Saphira's snout. If Eragon wasn't so intent in forming plans, he would have been appalled to see why Saphira hummed strangely. Why Thorn inched his head towards her underbelly.

_Break his wings!_ Eragon bellowed across their link. _Kill them before Thorn reacts._

The hum continued.

Eragon blinked perplexedly, not realizing that his words remained in his mind only. Saphira had already shut her mind earlier. She wouldn't spoil the mirth brought by Thorn's hum, his caressing touch on her wounds.

Eragon's face darkened, his black eyebrows closing in like two storm clouds. With Saphira now licking his opponent instead of fighting, Eragon had to end the battle himself. Murtagh buzzed something, a mingle of words that Eragon assumed to be his last. After all, he did let his guard down. He begged Eragon to end their miserable life.

And Eragon complied.

"Shatter," Eragon said, delving into nether realm of magic inside him. The powerful energy that churned inside him twisted excitedly, becoming a tumultuous torrent that now finally had a purpose: to shatter what Eragon had in mind.

Its departure overwhelmed Eragon, gnawing at his emptiness.

Eragon reached into Saphira's mind, penetrating her familiar haven with forceful desperation. The assault on her mind was fierce, intense; identical with a mental attack Eragon often launched at enemies.

He tapped into her vast supply of energy, using it to fuel the spell.

Instead of killing him, the spell accepted the bargain. Saphira's involuntary sacrifice. Eragon did it for the both of them, so it was fit that Saphira would share her contribution.

With the spell complete, Eragon surrendered to his weakness.

Only the bellowing roar that followed kept his vision clear, his composure unyielding. The roar, and Murtagh's surprised look as he plunged into the forest bellow, joined by his ruby companion.

This Saphira was not a liability. Were it not for her treacherous scheme, Thorn wouldn't have hovered so close to Eragon. It was because of her that Eragon succeeded in breaking the bones that moved the wings.

As delight subsided, Eragon crashed in the saddle, numb, but proud of his accomplishment.

_We did it_, he said. _We killed them._

Saphira roared harshly, piercingly. The roar was familiar to Eragon, for it was the same when Glaedr and Oromis died.


	58. Chapter 58

**A bit of advice for those who can't even spell properly in their reviews. Instead of embarrassing yourself to say no to my story, better shut up. This is one of those cases where silence is golden. Of course, it's up to you. I, for one, have a hard time understanding people who read something they don't like.**

For the second time, Arya dozed during danger. Her unprepared mind failed to tackle the sudden magic. Despite Oromis' training, a small error left her vulnerable. And again, her enemy took advantage of her lack of readiness. Their enemy.

Arya scrambled on her legs, lurching from one side to another. Using long, curt, unsteady strides, she moved towards a tree. Standing up would clear her dizziness quicker, but for that, she needed firm help to counter her vertigo.

The ragged bark barely pinched her numb hand. Distorted senses were an extra reason to wait for the spell to fade completely. Whoever the caster was, she wanted to be no extra burden to Eragon.

Arya sat clumsily, leaning her back against the tree. Right now, she would be alarmed, tense with fear and anger should her knotted wits return to alertness. That orange light in the sky, the ruddy edges of the clouds somewhere far away, gave her a vague clue. Whatever happened, Arya knew that prominent colors had not painted the sky when her vision faded.

* * *

"That scraggy boy snapped worse than a vial of snake juice when kept in hot water," Angela murmured, pacing back and forth around the fallen dragon. "I hope he is still reliable."

She did not particularly needed Solembum to heal them. Angela's Primal Color flared—a blaze that dwarfed the smoldering remnants of the Rider and dragon.

Angela stopped. "He looks so delicate and ugly."

The Rider moaned, sluggishly moving his limbs. The dragon hurt more, but certain spells made him unaware of it. With its membrane limbs shattered, he required Angela's attention. But still, the human groaned, calling its kind in a most unusual way.

Why were humans so fragile and weak? Usurpers of nature; Bane of life. They had many names—appropriate ones— but none that could describe their weakness. By flaunting their talents, humans dared forget their status. A disgusting façade that brought wars upon them.

Angela laughed—a repeated sequence of squeals. She rounded the dragon again, strangely excited.

Solembum perked up, eyeing her with interest from atop the branch he stood on.

_Both wings are shattered. Destroyed_, Angela said, kicking one of the slumps that jutted out of the dragon's body. Life Water, similar to its hide, coated the earth beneath.

_A dragon's magic is capable of more,_ Solembum yawned, scratching the bark with his front paws eagerly. Angela might need his help.

_Half of it was, _Angela pondered, staring at the wing narrowly. Her upper limbs moved. Solembum learned that she was confused when that happened.

_Two Primal Colors_, Solembum said, leaping from his towering position lithely. Barely a thud disturbed the earth.

_Curious_, Angela added. _I wonder if the other oozed willingly. _

Angela looked around, then wrapped her paws around the dragon's exposed limb bones, pulling herself up. She lacked the agility that once came natural to her, and Solembum needed no more than a few steady leaps to reach the saddle, where the Rider lay belly up. His limbs hung awkwardly on the sloping sides of the saddle. The deformed, oversized head rested on some furs that covered the dragon's back.

Angela swatted her paw against his face.

He groaned, face twisting awkwardly, but no words came out of his mouth. Solembum was perplexed by the human's unwillingness to talk without mouth. Angela said it's natural to them. How primitive. With so much knowledge gathered over the ages, they now refused to evolve.

_Kill him,_ Solembum hissed, his pristine teeth bared in a snarl. _He had to die._

_We already interfered,_ Angela said.

Hissing turned to soft purr the moment Angela's oversized paws clenched tenderly around his sleek, dustless fur. Cradled against her breast, Solembum felt the radiating warmness engulfing him. Cleaning his paws by brushing them on the cloth was also pleasing.

_Very soon,_ Angela said, meeting his nose with her cheek. Solembum licked her, almost reassuringly. He wanted it to happen badly. Maybe even before the Lifegiving Cycle.

He always craved for its arrival, now more than usual. It used to bring nothing but the promise of a distant fulfillment. However, the ever changing nature was likely to work in their favor. This time, they may just see it happen.

_He is still afflicted by the spell,_ Solembum said, arching her head under her caressing large paw. Blood invaded the human's cheek, turning the area Angela hit a sickly red.

_I know_, she giggled—the squeal that meant happiness. _Wanted to see the spell's potency_.

Solembum did not understand Angela. The way she acted was necessary, but downright confusing. Soon, that was going to cease.

_This sight demoralizes me,_ Angela said, without the squeals this time. Knowing what she meant, Solembum bit her fragile neck softly, placing his front paws on her chest.

_Let me do it_, he pleaded. _You never let me. _

Angela cooped his head in her hand, moving her chin to the sides. That meant she did not agree.

_They are not worthy._

Being familiar with defeat, Solembum ran his tongue along the area marked by his fangs. He did not hurt her, despite her fragile constitution. No Life Liquid meant no wound. Adjusting to it felt hard and daunting at first, when each bite, each stroke of paw called blood out of Angela's body.

She had not complained. His intentions mattered, and Angela accepted them instinctively, before Solembum even learned not to hurt her. What was a flesh wound to her? Solembum couldn't know. Pain was almost unfamiliar to him. Like Saphira the dragon, he was alone. The times when he used to tackle another werecat were long gone.

_Stop it_, Angela chuckled. _Your tongue distracts me._

_You can't be distracted_, Solembum said, respecting her wish.

_I'm good at pretending. _

Suddenly, her Primal Color swirled and shrank. The blaze surrendered a part of its fury, becoming a wan fire.

Solembum hissed, his fur bristling. The spell was demanding, even to Angela. While her Primal Color was capable of far more than just the spell she used, Solembum grudgingly accepted that she was past her prime.

He did not panic, like humans do. Instead, he felt the urge to lick her, to share her burden. But that meant ignoring her work. Insulting her by not acknowledging her skills.

Solembum turned his head, watching the effects of the spell.

Angela's Primal Color permeated the air around Thorn, swirling in a majestic, organized vortex. Angela—who possessed human eyes—could not see Primal Color. For her, the bones snapped into place, the wounds closed, and blood flooded the dragon's body.

For Solembum, the Primal Color revealed its work. He saw the Primal Color turning into particles of bone, flesh, and even Life Liquid. Small, nebulous masses of Primal color—a swarm in number—hovered above the wounds, each with its own task.

It was a grand sight for a human, and a dull one for a werecat. Angela could do more than just mending wounds, but he did not want to disrespect her abilities. After all, none of the Riders—not even the most powerful, not even Galbatorix—, no dragon, save for a rare amount, were even able to heal that wound perfectly.

The spell took its toll on Angela, but she did not crash like that Eragon Rider.

_Cease being bristly,_ she said, carrying Solembum back to the saddle. _That fur tickles me, and I have a sensitive nose. _

Solembum raised his tail, brushing his side against her flank. _You were stubborn before. It only became worse._

Angela chuckled, pointing at the tree Solembum rested on earlier. He did not argue against her. The dragon's scales felt rough under his paws. Unpleasant.

Swiftly, with an agility only he out of the two possessed, Solembum clambered down the dragon's back and resumed his vigilant watch from atop the branch.

Angela shuffled towards Murtagh, swiping her paw across his face. A muffled scream, joined by several coughs was his response to Angela's attack.

"Sprout vigorously," she said, using her mouth to speak. Her words were harsher, more guttural, lacking the softness, the smooth touch only her mind voice held.

The human pushed his torso upwards, looking around. He appeared to be thoroughly confused. Angela grabbed his squirming head.

"Look below, smile, then unhinge your tongue."

The human did as Angela said. A part of his stiffness dissipated, but he was not fully relaxed. Even after he saw a predicament abolished for good, he did not seem convinced. Humans were thoroughly confusing. Stupid, Angela called them.

"We cannot afford to be lazy." There was urgency in her voice. A lack of patience uncommon for Angela.

The human said nothing.

Angela's paws ran through her hair. When she did that, Solembum learned that it meant irritation.

"We healed your wounds. We returned the gift of flight to your dragon," Angela said. "But instead of smiling, you look as dumb and uninteresting as a sack of potatoes."

"Filthy, too," she added when the human had yet to reply.

Solembum licked his paws leisurely, cleaning the remnants of the Life Liquid that stained them. Humans were stupid, but this one ashamed his kin.

"Grat—titude," he managed to stutter, finally regaining his wits. His callous voice did not distract Solembum from his activity. To him, only Angela's words mattered. She was the only human worthy of him.

"Not words," Angela cut sharply. "I need certain herbs, and you will gather them later."

The human drew his head back.

"Instead of being polite, tell me how Dumby defeated you."

"Who?"

"You call him Eragon, but he is dumb, like you." Angela began rubbing her hands. She was trying to calm herself, but the human's words pleased her. It was a confusing gesture belonging to humans. Solembum had yet to understand what it really meant.

"Is he important to you?" Murtagh raised his voice.

"You were important to me," Angela said. "Eragon is a different matter."

"My oath to you, that—

"Hush," Angela rushed him.

"But—"

Murtagh yelped, Angela's paw too fast to dodge. The force swayed his head to the side, but the human appeared to be less confused.

"Can he shatter the dragon's wings alone?" Angela appeared fiercer. More convincing, better at persuading.

The human waned before her, acknowledging her superiority with a bowed head.

"I cannot, and he is my brother—"

"Off you go," Angela demanded.

Murtagh looked at her.

"SHOO!"


	59. Chapter 59

Eragon couldn't breath, but even the incapability of this vital and continuous process was lesser than fear. The fear of death. His death.

The clenched teeth that pressed themselves together at the sound of yet another deafening roar did little to protect his sensitive ears. Not only that, but it did even less in protecting his fragile body. The large bulk covered with glistening sapphires only preceded the flash of movement that sent Eragon off the ground.

Eragon released the little air remaining in his lungs at the brutal impact. He would have also released a scream, if he could. Pain exploded from inside, and it could not be contained. He had to scream. Or not. The wails of pain were to be saved for the impending landing

Eragon's consciousness faded briefly after the initial shock, offering him a temporary doorway to the realm where pain was not going to reach him. He wanted it to end... to die right here. But death was lasting and too peaceful for him. He had awoken a monster, and this was the reality for the time being.

A deep breath followed, then a weird gurgle. Air refused to enter without taking its payment, but Eragon breathed anyway. Such a bargain was easily accepted when every bone and muscle was torn by painful spasms.

_Saphira, stop, _Eragon forced himself to think when the thuds of her footsteps approached._ I can't, I'm not at fault..._

But like before, Eragon' words were not heard except in his own mind. He previously surpassed this disability by forcing his way into Saphira's mind. Doing that now was far beyond his control. It was ironic how taking control of Saphira's energy spurred her into an uncontrollable rage caused by the death of an enemy.  
_  
Saphira, _Eragon thought desperately, trying to crawl away from the crazed predator whose eyes were fixed on him. Those cold, sapphire eyes that shimmered with terrifying beauty did not belong to Saphira. They couldn't.

Saphira was not like that. Not his Saphira.

Yet this was the truth, and Eragon realized it when he looked into those austere eyes. He felt helpless and limp now that he gazed at his impending demise.

Saphira parted her jaws, unleashing part of the torrent that was churning inside her.

Azure flames engulfed Eragon and his surroundings. The flames did not last long, dissipating shortly, but they burned with surreal efficiency.  
Another roar reverberated from Saphira's throat, and somehow, Eragon heard it.

Stubbornly clinging to life, Eragon used the remnants of Saphira's energy in warding off her flames. By sheer chance, he survived the flames, but not the pain.

Claws sharp as blades cut open his legs, only to be crushed later by immense weight. The pain was so alive, so intense! Eragon forcefully opened his tear-drenched eyes. Once that happened, he saw her. The close proximity of her snout and the nostrils that caressed his wounds with warm vapors brought a sick reminiscence of the times they spent together.

"Saphira..." Eragon whispered. THen, with a shaky, bloodied hand, he touched her snout...maybe for the last time.

Saphira savagely shook off Eragon's hand and pulled her head up, growling ferociously Then, after a few tense moments of hesitation, she jolted off in another direction, where she again unleashed her fury. Claws tore the earth apart, tail smashed it and flames burned everything.

Eragon had a strange sense that time was thrown backwards and everything was repeating itself. The same terror he felt when Saphira first landed recaptured him in its grips as he feared of another attack. He waited for it like a prey on the verge of death, but it did not come.

It did not come.

Shaking from every joint, Eragon began to heal the most severe wounds, his screams dwarfed by Saphira's hissing and growling.

Once his energy was spent, Eragon collapsed on the ground. Through his half closed eyes he could see Saphira crouching, then jumping, coordonating these movemetns with the flapping of her wings. After numerious failed attempts, she crashed on the ground, breathing laboriously.  
_  
I killed them,_ Eragon thought with a hinge of regret as he realized what Saphira did. She showed mercy where he did not, and for that, Eragon could hold no spite towards her. Looking once more at the ravaged land before him, Eragon closed his eyes and welcomed the veiling darkness.

If Arya failed to find Eragon in the twilit forest, then at night, her chance lessened considerably. His mind wouldn't let hers in—the innate wall that came with training blocked Arya's attempts. Saphira was out of her reach, a fact that unnerved and puzzled her even more.

The nightly gusts chilled her meat; they manipulated it by calling forth tremors, until that time unknown to her elven body.

Eragon had warmed her in the saddle. He helped her forget about the precarious human clothes she wore. Now alone, she braved the forest with slow, uncertain strides. She was not a lithe spirit of the forest, but a frail, chilled being whose lurch lacked beauty and grace.

_Barzul,_ she thought, stopping, letting the panting, together with that pain in her chest, subside. She ached all over, but more hurt the churning mass of thoughts. She couldn't find Eragon. The night was too dark, with no moon to guide her steps. The enemy crippled Eragon, and he would die because her powerlessness. She was lost. Useless. A failure.

Tears began rolling down her dust caked cheeks. Arya—the fierce warrior, the elven princess—slept during danger. It was the enemy's doing, but she always fell prey to these tricks. While Eragon fought, she relished ignorance. When the battle was lost, she came to her senses, only to get lost in the same forest with him. Together, but apart. Because of her inaptitude.

Arya shuffled towards a tree, leaning her worn out form against it. Why had she relinquished hopelessness, the despair that she grew accustomed to? She betrayed them. Abandoned them to the fleeting trickster—hope.

The childish, curious part of her being felt like grabbing a new toy called love, despite the numerous warnings hopelessness and despair whispered in her head. But she did it anyway. Swayed by Eragon and his soothing words, Arya wanted to try something new.

How ignorant she had been. Like a child, her once lost companions reprimanded her. Arya tried to ward them off. Eragon wanted her to do that. She promised him.

_Don't forget your old self,_ hopelessness whispered threateningly. _You were powerful. Secure. A branch of life that never bent._

_Accept the reality_, despair added. _You did that with Faolin, your mother, Oromis. The more you wait, the more you crumble. _

Arya shook her head in denial, embedding her fingers in the tattered, soiled tunic. She wanted to hear what hope said, but it was so faint compared to the other two. They were the tumultuous sea, and hope was the log. The anchor which Arya used to keep herself floating. Why shouldn't she abandon it? Returning meant safety, no doubts. No torment, no tears, no instability. No pain.

Arya broke into a cry. A wild, pathetic display of weakness with uncontrollable hiccups and sobs. For her race, it was the epitome of disgrace among warriors. In order to fight their enemies effectively, elves had to accept death. They had to be familiar with the eternal, yet ephemeral life they lived.

Arya was never good at lessons. She had always chosen her own path with meandering, tempting trails. What a fool. How had she—the unyielding princess—dared to hope? Roads had to end somewhere, and she finally encountered the bottom. But for some wicked reason, she refused to accept it.

Arya wiped her tears, sobbing quietly. Her hands shivered, but they felt less stiff. She wanted to stay, cry and wither alone. Yet she found that repulsing. Strangely, she felt more secure. Her poise, a gnarled branch. Not broken, but gnarled.

Wasn't she the one to save Eragon? Without her promptness, he would have died there. Somehow, she managed to save him. She brought hope to Saphira and the Varden. The war did not end because of her. She wasn't completely useless.

Because, at that moment, she dared to hope.

Arya slowly regained steadiness. Wobbling slightly, she ventured into the forest. Before venturing into the ocean, before relinquishing that log, she wanted to feel hope again. Unlike her former self, she was determined.

Eragon wasn't in their makeshift camp. Nor was he laying in a gully she just passed, or leaned against the numerous, tall trees.

She scouted most of the forest. She scoured thick bushes, checked riverbanks, climbed hills for useless vantage points. Nature veiled its secrets, refusing to surrender them to her. Engulfed by weakness, demoralized by failure, Arya was vulnerable to despair and hopelessness. Now, however, she refused to let them take over.

The wind carried many scents, but a particular one roused Arya's senses. It was the smell of singed wood.

_A fire's doing,_ she thought, straining her limbs into a dash. A fire implied warmth. If Eragon was near, then the faint trace of smell might lead her to him. Trickling excitement welled inside Arya. While the forest could trick her again, a path was always better than the untainted wilds.

Arya gasped at the sight that presented in front of her. No human had the power to ravage the trees, least unearth a few. Deep gashes tore the earth apart, each deeper than the other.

Arya looked up, her heart thumping with alacrity. The gashes were strangely familiar, and her troubled mind ruffled new thoughts to the surface.

She shuddered. If that was the result of a dragon's fury, then its unfortunate target had to lie nearby.

And what was that strange mass, huddled against a distant tree?

"Don't want to leave," Eragon mumbled gruffly. "She not with you. I won't leave."

The Force tugged at his clothes. It pulled his hands, grabbed his fingers, demanded attention. Its persistence was daunting. Eragon battled The Force for a good while already, and yet, it was still here. Why was it bothering him? Eragon wanted it to stop.

He did not know how long the Force had been here, what attracted it to him in the first place. At times, Eragon wanted to open his eyes, but darkness only he saw. A strange, permeating darkness. Different from his own, in which he felt safe.

"You can't stay here," the Force warned softly.

Of all the things it did to him, words were the worst. The Force sounded like someone he knew. It allured him gently, caressed his ears with melodic pleas. Eragon almost relinquished his darkness.

"Let me take you," the Force said.

"No," he moaned.

The Force did nothing. Eragon knew it would not stop. It wanted something from him. It wanted to take him. Eragon had to shrug it off for a while longer. Until she returned, Eragon would resist it.

Arya woke up next to Eragon. In his delirious state, he refused to come with her.

By slowly unwrapping her arms, Arya avoided waking him up. Offering him peace was the least she could do after a night spent in cold and darkness. Her fault, of course. But failure was quickly becoming part of who she was.

As soon as Arya pulled away from Eragon, she felt the chilling touch of the wind that raked at her bare torso. Powerful shivers shook her slender frame, urging her to pick the tunic and equip it. That was not possible.

Her head began to throb. A gnawing, vicious pain that urged her to go back to sleep and regain her strength. Arya settled with this mild discomfort and shambled around, gathering wood for a fire.

Igniting one was a postponed priority. Faced with a terrible sight last night, Arya gave in to her fear and drained every ounce of her energy to heal Eragon's wounds. That included the necessary energy to build a fire.

Arya bent down, picking a few twigs torn from the nearby trees by Saphira's awe-inspiring rage. Her body ached all over. Even something simple as walking felt alien to her. She lacked balance, strength, coordination. Forcing her trembling limbs to move felt like straining an empty husk.

Unfortunately, she had to do it. She had to stomach the pain, ignore the dried crust of blood on her cheek, press on. Above all, she had to make amends for last night. Not only for Eragon, but for herself. She couldn't possibly be a failure. Arya refused to admit it.

With the help of the faint morning light that crept through the canopies, Arya's task felt less disheartening. During the numerous patrols she had to take, Arya berated herself. Who but she would heal a dear one before building a fire? Among humans, cold was known to kill the wounded. It was a miracle that Eragon did not succumb to it. And she played a part in it too.

After piling enough wood to fuel a hearty blaze, Arya ignited it with magic and settled next to Eragon. In the absence of a fire during the night, she clutched Eragon tightly, using every part of her body to keep him warm. In that moment of fear and despair, she had forsaken her tunic, along with etiquette.

She pressed her bare torso against his back, enduring the biting cold, shielding her loved one from it. Where she couldn't reach him—his now healed chest— the leather tunic added an extra layer of clothing. Even her raven locks acted as some sort of cover across his face. With a hearty blaze crackling in front of her, Arya felt happy and relieved. So relieved, that she shortly fell asleep.

"I ended our enemies. It was my duty to the Varden, to Alagaesia."

Eragon sat with his back at Arya, as if he wished to hide the mystifying turmoil that his low voice betrayed.

"You saw what she did," Eragon said. "I overestimated my power."

Arya shifted uncomfortably, resting her head on her arm. Eragon woke up after her. He did not ask questions, nor did he blushed, or feel inappropriate. He carefully placed the tunic over her exposed torso, probably thinking that she was still asleep. Since then, he stood in front of her, like a weathered sentinel.

"She wanted to kill me." His voice broke into a whisper. "I killed our enemies. It makes no sense."

For a Rider that has faced such predicament, Eragon seemed unnaturally strong. The steadiness of his words came not from a masterful control over emotions. Arya first assumed it was grief, but his unyielding voice held no trace of it. No, it wasn't misery. It was nothing. A void, encased by confusion.

Arya pushed herself up. With the corner of her eyes, she saw the smoldering remnants of their fire, the ash and dirt carried by the wind. The air retained its frigid touch, but it was less intense, close to bearable.

As she moved in front of Eragon, Arya noticed the desolation that claimed his features. Those once powerful eyes lost their spark. His dirty hair had been hastily pushed to a side, like it was an unneeded burden.

Arya cringed. That pale, lifeless figure. Those eyes, devoid of warmth. The torn, bloodied leggings, with leather patches hanging uselessly to the sides. That punctured tunic, stained with grime. Who was this man?

"She had a mate," Eragon said, staring emptily at her. "The green egg. When it hatches, she has a mate."

Arya was lost. She did not know what to say, what to do. Her once prominent grip on logic faded. Her wisdom was made up of starkness, a memento of her previous life. She had nothing but vague promises and ephemeral thoughts.

"She really wanted a mate," Eragon said, looking at the sky, "and I killed him."

Arya followed his gaze. There was nothing in the sky. No clouds. Only a barren, blue surface.

Part of her wanted to get involved. To help, she had to know more, but the nagging feeling that she would make it worse kept her lips shut. She failed to comfort him, for it was something unknown to her. She was a burden. She could not restore Eragon's happiness, nor bring Saphira back. This new Arya—Eragon's creation—was useless, doubtful and afraid. She couldn't—

Eragon suddenly got up.

"She will return," he said, this time with conviction. "Until she does, we move towards the Rock of Kuthian."


	60. Werecats

**Hello Anonymous chick who loves angst. I understand that every reader has certain preferences when it comes to books, but threatening the author in order to insert your beloved thoughts among my paragraphs is not going to help. It's rude and unnecessary. If you like my book, that's great. If you do not fancy my plot, then I'm sure there are better books that deserve your time. **

**IronMikeTyson, thanks for your continuous support. I'll try to match your expectations :)**

Eragon had an increasingly hard time tolerating his entourage. Coping with Arya was more difficult than conquering the steep hill they had been climbing for a while already. Her false promises were rugged with unrequited sadness, just like the jagged stones and boulders sprinkled randomly across the crumpled soil.

The more she insisted to help, the harder she climbed to his heart. More irritating than her senseless ramblings was the harsh midday sun. The trees offered some relief against the heat, but the accursed wind refused to blow. The elements themselves cursed Eragon.

"His four legs are way faster than yours."

Eragon looked up, frowning. Walking came natural to one such as Angela, proven by her significant lead. Sitting on a boulder, she laughed riotously at them, her squeals muffled by the upper air currents.

Eragon bit his bottom lip, drawing blood. He should not have climbed this mountain. The slave Angela and her cat might, but that was not how he used to travel. A Rider crossed the mountains on dragon back; A Rider spent nights huddled against his dragon's side. Riders did not walk, or build campfires to withstand the biting cold. That is what happened to him. Because of a stubborn dragon. Because of dead enemies.

The craving he felt when he and Saphira parted ways faded the day after his wounds had been healed. Regret, shame and sympathy smoldered until they consumed themselves. Now, all that remained was the void inside his heart and mind. The nothingness.

Over the last five days, it self sustained. Each climbed hill, crossed ridge or walk provided it with sustenance once certain memories failed to stop his expansion. Arya was no longer his ally. Every word uttered by her held a meager tribute, a gift to the void dwelling inside him. She never understood him.

It was such a relief that she stopped talking. What Eragon needed was not her foolish hope about Saphira's return, but pragmatism. Without Saphira, his task to defeat Galbatorix became harder.

Obstacles always blocked Eragon's path, be it lack of food under Garrow's care or the sudden departure of a dragon. As a man accustomed to the hardships of survival, Eragon learned that the best way to face an obstacle was to simply make it vanish.

_Shatter. _

Weakness barely tugged at his limbs as the boulder in front of him cracked into a swarm of shards, each tumbling down faster than the other.

"Conserve your energy," Arya said from behind condescendingly.

Paying no heed to her words, Eragon walked over the stone chips, striding to reach the top. Angela was already waiting for him, bladeless huthvir held firmly. A weird weapon, but an efficient walking stick.

"The drunk who scribbled the tome blessed it with ale from his guts," Angela said, smiling wryly. "It's no wonder I don't know how the Rock of Kuthian looks, but half a day's travel should get us there. Keep looking for a conspicuously large rock!"

She dashed forward, but then she stopped.

"Or a boulder," she noted.

Eragon ceased his struggles to decipher her. She was annoying, had many secrets and spoke in riddles. Even so, Eragon involuntarily observed the diminishing mirth that she tried to hide. Angela was not spared of change either.

"Eragon."

The clutch on his shoulder was unrelenting.

"Avoid the emptiness," she said solemnly. "It's tantalizing, blissful, agonizing. Letting it go means relinquishing life."

Eragon squirmed slightly. Arya tightened her grip, digging her nails into the tanned leather of his tunic. He eyed her curtly.

"You had no dragon."

Arya looked down. "Not all bonds are the same. Some last forever. Others—" she trailed off, glancing at him. "They simply vanish."

Eragon barely recognized the sadness in her voice, the stark look in her eyes. They seemed distant, trapped in a permeating haze. He did not always rely on Saphira. A good part of his life had not included her. Going back, however, was daunting. Too much had been lost already. He was not prepared.

"You have other bonds," Arya added. "Lasting ones." She lowered her voice to a soft whisper. "Recent ones."

"Another false promise?" Eragon inquired, frowning. "Another ephemeral conjuration of hope and joy?"

Arya was taken aback. Her unyielding poise crumbled before Eragon's eyes.

"You speak of Saphira, when you already know of her betrayal," Eragon said nonchalantly. Arya quivered slightly, but faced the gravity of his thundering words. This elf was determined. Stubborn.

"You suffered, Arya," Eragon reproached. "What broken vines lie within you coil around lies, trying to hoist themselves upwards to escape the clouds below." He said nothing. Arya's grip lessened on his shoulder.

"There is nothing up there," he harshly concluded.

Arya wasn't shocked. At least, none of her features indicated so. Eragon thought it was over, that he finally demolished her irrational stubbornness. When he wanted to go, the hand on his shoulder reminded him that Arya was not yet done. He turned around.

"What about me?" She pleaded, looking at him with hopeful emerald eyes.

Eragon regarded her for a moment. That lithe form that enthralled his senses and captivated his mind. The lush raven hair that rippled across her beautiful shoulders, caressing her breasts. She was a majestic tree amidst grime coated plains. The tainted splendor. For him, she was a faded memory of a life once vibrant with sound and color.

"Unimportant," Eragon concluded, shrugging off her frail hand.

* * *

The brutal answer she received from Eragon before the sun bled in the sky still lingered in Arya's mind. She thought she still possessed that commanding power, the soothing touch which Eragon relished. She hoped to change him, to deter him from going to the same abyss Eragon saved her from.

_Some things, like the rocks, cannot be ravaged,_ Arya mused, kicking a pebble. She expected to lose. The way towards the Rock of Kuthian was rough and tedious, giving her enough time to ponder on the defeat she faced.

It wasn't her way to feel bitter after a confrontation, yet this one was different. She was not only overpowered, but failed a friend. A loved one. A potential mate.

"Hush!"

Angela's strident shout sent shivers across Arya's unsuspecting form, rousing her awareness.

"You looked at the trees, not at the rock itself."

Arya watched Angela shuffle through some dense undergrowth, wading through the foliage with the aid of her hands. Glancing at Eragon—who trailed behind her—Arya followed Angela.

The narrow slope was the habitat of numerous critters. Brambles tugged at her clothes, the branches intertwined in her hair, insects crawled across her arms. An unusually small tree that grew in the middle of the tiny corridor surrounded by spiky bushes made it even worse.

"This is the Rock of Kuthian," Arya heard Angela's voice. Slightly curious, she scuttled forward, swaying slightly to evade the tree and its gnarled boughs that prodded at her hair.

The end of their search was not a rock, but a rocky burrow guarded by a huge triangular stone that leaned forward, providing a natural ledge for its inhabitants. Shuffling forward for a better look, Arya observed that the small, uneven corridor that led underground had been dug by a medium sized animal.

"Go no forward," Angela threatened, almost harshly. "Back, back to the tree with you," she waved persistently, crouching next to Solembum once Arya obeyed.

Arya quickly realized just how unusual it was to see Angela uptight. The herbalist always seemed in control, restraining her emotions more efficiently than Arya. Watching Angela grumble intelligible words to her werecat puzzled and intrigued Arya at the same time. What if Kuthian was dangerous? What was he?

Solembum meowed softly and licked Angela's face a few times before strolling into the burrow. Tilting his body gracefully, Solembum entered the burrow without much trouble. Somehow, the entrance fit him. Arya's eyes widened.

The Rock of Kuthian was not a burrow, but a den.

Favoring Eragon—who sat to her left, on the other part of the tree—an uncertain glance, Arya tried to tell him that she was with him. That in this quest, he was not alone, no matter how ridiculous it sounded.

Strange meows snapped Arya to her senses. One belonged to Solembum, but the other was softer, more melodic.

_Kuthian is a female werecat_? Arya thought.

Her musings dwelled shortly. Two werecats emerged from the den. Solembum and a smaller, enthusiastic werecat that circled him impatiently, brushing sleek, rich grey fur streaked with silvery stripes against his form.

Her displays were erratic to Arya's eyes, but vaguely familiar. After licking Solembum's face, the other werecat dropped on her belly, swishing her tail. When Solembum did nothing, she repeatedly rubbed her body against it, almost enticingly. As the gray werecat placed herself in front of Solembum, Arya realized why her behavior was not foreign to her. It was a mating plea.

Much to her disappointment, Solembum did nothing. The werecat accepted her failure, for she stopped shortly after.

Angela sighed, walking towards the werecat. She almost seemed relieved and proud of Solembum's decision. Her posture was no longer stiff and tense, but fully relaxed.

Both Solembum and the other werecat stared at her intently. Arya suspected they talked among themselves. It wasn't just concentration that captivated the werecats. Both of them ignored Angela, and now they seemed oddly interested in her.

Arya shifted uncomfortably, tapping her right foot impatiently. Being excluded from everything that regarded their quest unnerved her. Until now, Angela guided them with uncanny precision along the way. Arya had not seen the tome or what it contained, but books held no references about vegetation or hidden locations such as the Rock of Kuthian. Angela knew exactly where to look for.

The gray werecat licked her face several times, then entered the den.

"Well?" Eragon asked impetuously. "Can that cat defeat Galbatorix?"

"Oh no, dear!" Angela chuckled. "You will. After we go somewhere else."


	61. Things of Less Importance

Eragon sad against a protruding root, staring at the topaz light that broke through the canopy.

Fire claws, Saphira called them.

To Eragon, they were mere beams of light that did not resemble fire in any of its many forms. They insulted and mocked him with their pale imitation. But Eragon still looked at them, like he used to. Like he did when he was not alone and cold and sullen.

Like he did when he knew the company of something other than loneliness. But was that true? Was Eragon truly alone? One would give an answer just by looking at him, but the truth was far more deceiving than what eyes revealed. Eragon had another companion, and it was different, but not inexistent.

Eragon was far from being alone.

Arya had warned him about it, but Eragon did not want to listen. She was not a dragon Rider. She did not know how it was.

Eragon heard voices, but he ignored them. Voices were bothersome and demanding; persistent and hard to ignore when _it_ was behind their whispering.

The void was sometimes speaking to him, but Eragon could not always understand. _It _was not like Arya or Angela, whose descriptions were confusing and more addling that_ its_ presence. Eragon knew what _it_ was. He felt _it_. _It_ was dark, but unclear. Blund, but hazy. Visible, but obscure.

And its company was everlasting.

Eragon shuddered. Something touched him, but the warmth lacked the gentle blaze. Whatever it was, it was not _her._

"I've lit a fire," came a gentle voice. It was Arya.

Arms clutched around Eragon's torso, and his back was feeling less frigid than before.

"There was no need," Eragon whispered.

"You are colder than a rock, Eragon," Arya insisted, her grip increasing its strength as her chest pressed against Eragon's back. "Your clothes are not keeping you warm, and the night will—"

"No need," Eragon voiced his thoughts as silently as before and brushed her hand off him.

Eragon looked at the blazing flames with the same casual approach as before. The light of the sun and the flames shred many similarities, with uselessness being the most significant.

The flames were selfish. They did not lend him warmth, like _she_ did with _her_ inner fire. They did not stop the wind, like _her_ wing did. All they were good for were taunts and false promises of warmth. They deceived Eragon just like Arya had done with words, but not with actions. Like before, Arya exposed herself to keep Eragon warm. She was sacrificing for someone who did not even regard her presence.

An intense shudder rippled through Eragon's body. It continued the unbreakable cycle of tremors brought by cold's icy claws and the earth's hunger for anything warmer than its frigid surface. Eragon was not used to this. Saphira had tamed the cold and brought heat in every night when tiredness became too unyielding for Eragon.

Now, without her, Eragon was left at the mercy of what nature intended for its creatures, and he realized something.

He was not adapted. Alone, he was a useless creature that could not even survive one night in the open.

_This is only one night_, the void whispered, its voice chilling as the wind. _One out of countless_ _to follow._

Eragon raked the dirt with his hand. His fingers were so numb that he did not even mind the sharp pebbles that cut open his skin.

_Cold like this one_? Eragon found himself thinking

_Yes_, the void responded, fueling Eragon with new reserves of hopelessness. The shivering continued, preying on Eragon's weakness. It was so cold. And why was the fire so insignificant?

"Burn. Consume everything," Eragon commanded in the ancient language and offered his energy as payment.

The flames suddenly flared to life, but the blast engulfed everything around it.

Eragon and Arya disappeared into the flames.

_Wards_, Eragon thought instinctively.

The hungry blaze charred the lesser forms of life such as plants and insects, but left the two elves intact.

"I will keep you warm, Eragon," Arya said. "Warm as my body allows."

Could she? Her wards prevented the heat of the fire from reaching Eragon's skin. It was because of her that cold chilled Eragon's meat up to his bone.

She was useless, just like the fire that was supposed to banish the cold.

"You try to replace her, but you won't," Eragon said. "You never will."


	62. The Half Burried City

**I'm so glad you like it Nightsky. The following chapters should expand on the matter regarding the void and add some interesting tidbits about Eragon. Let's see what the Vault of Souls looks like!**

**IronMikeTyson, I'm not fond of the Rider bond either. It's an abomination, and it just doesn't do justice to a relationship forged through mutual trust and understanding.**

Crolis-Vaden—the half burried city, as Angela called it—was strangely related to the dwarven ruins Arya had glimpsed in the tomes of the Tialdari Hall.

Large, strangely shaped stones, boulders and broken spires lay around her, scattered into piles of rubble. Grime and lichens coated the dilapidated structures, the nature having already claimed these vestiges.

Arya slowly waded through stone chips and mud, carefully placing her feet on the steady stones and avoiding the narrow gaps between them. In front of her, Angela nimbly jumped from one broken pillar to a block of stone, closely followed by Solembum. Seeing her hurdle over the ruins so gracefully unnerved Arya. Such a desolate, puzzling sight deterred peace. Yet it strangely welcomed Angela.

Behind Arya, Eragon huffed gruffly. None of them knew of Angela's plight, the origin of the ruins, or the reason they crossed them. She had barely talked.

Silence demoralized Arya, almost as much as the looming shadow of the mountain they headed to. Eragon's voice had the power to cast this dreary, pressing atmosphere away, yet he wished not to. Being unimportant made Arya redundant to him, like an object kept for too long in a bag. After a tiresome walk, it weighed hard on the owner's back.

Arya wanted not to be a burden to him. When her comforting attempts failed, she felt a deep regret, but never stopped sympathizing with Eragon. What was she, compared to Saphira? A poor replacement. A confused friend Eragon had no need of.

_He will change,_ Arya thought, glancing at his ruffled form. _And I will return to him the hope he has lost._

"We already know you," Angela said curtly, eyeing Eragon, "and you are a simple fellow."

Arya trudged her body closer to Eragon. "I know him better."

"Doubts haunt your frail voice," Angela scoffed, frowning.

Arya glared at her, pouring every drop of anger into her unyielding statement. "Eragon was to be my mate. I know him."

Eragon shifted his bleak face towards her. She failed to mend the terrible wound that transformed him. She was aware of her diminishing power, of the scarcity of the words she recklessly said to him. As she looked into his eyes, Arya found nothing. Save for—

What was that? It wasn't desolation that she saw in his eyes, but something else. A fleeting spark of a half faded dream. Was that regret? Or sympathy, maybe nostalgia? Too fast had it faded, but it lasted long enough to fortify her resolve.

"Eragon," she said, placing her hands on his shoulders. "Uncertainty plagues you. I can see it in your barren eyes; feel it in your few, distant words. This is not who you are."

Angela grumbled, but did not interfere.

"Before this treacherous façade lies a bringer of hope. A steadfast defender who conquered misery and ripped it from my decaying form. The warrior within you fights and kills, but a farmer gives life."

She leaned closer to his head, blinking a few times. Being that close to him made her heart thump in her chest, her hands ooze sweat on his shoulder.

"You are not one of them, but both." She stopped talking.

Eragon stared into her eyes. He did not blink, he did not part lips.

Arya shuddered. Arms, stronger than hers, pushed her away.

What was happening? Had she succeeded? Too many things happened at the same time. Hands—his hands—brushed hers off. Cold, brown eyes looked away. Back, she was forced to go. Away from him.

Too many things. Arya felt her temples pounding, ready to burst, to release that huge pressure welling inside her.

She heard Angela laugh.

"The boy needs no useless praise and hope," she said.

Arya wanted to disagree, to do something, but she couldn't. She was now too far from him. She had failed.

Even tears refused to wet her face. So much of a disgrace she ended to be. The frail, scared princess stood away from Eragon, staring dumbly at the rock she sat on. She had no good answer for herself. No purpose remained for her. She felt redundant now. Useless.

Unimportant.

"Your will is shifting and churning like the whistling winds under the dark clouds. Once it settles, it is hard to unearth it."

Angela brutally turned Eragon's head towards her to look him in the eyes. Eragon did nothing.

"Those eyes," she said. "You have a companion. He likes to stay in the eyes because of their dark color. It never left you since it settled."

"That immortality you now possess was not a gift. It stuck within your mind and body long before Saphira hatched. Why, it's quite obvious," she concluded, chuckling. "That stubbornness makes you so unpleasant."

Angela got up, beckoning onwards furiously. "He knows enough," she said.

Arya almost felt herself hovering over the ruins. No longer was she feeling the pebbles under her feet. No longer did she care about the ruins. She had become a ghost, following Angela without a viable reason.

Arya couldn't be bitter after a defeat. She used to be in control, even among her own kin. Humans regarded her warily, and some said she cannot feel. In that life, she wasn't paying attention to defeat. Now, however, the control she held over her feelings snapped. She felt too much, so much that her body felt deadened.

"Solembum will show us where."

Angela's words snapped Arya to her senses. How long had it passed? A moment? A day and night?

They reached the vertical cliff face of the mountain. Arya knew the rock hadn't been the element's doing, for it was too smooth and even. The same steep slopes extended all the way on her right and left, like a bent wall of mud and rock.

The werecat scuttled forward. The reason evaded Arya, but at the same time, she did not care. Much time had already passed. More, it would not matter.

Not long after the werecat began its search, Solembum roared. A strident, shrieking sound that grated Arya's ears.

The section that he placed his forepaws on looked no different from the other. Angela, however, frowned and beckoned at Eragon.

"You stay away," She said, dropping the sack she had been carrying all along. "Solembum will know if you don't."

A side of Arya wanted to stay, but she complied with a simple nod. It was Eragon's quest, not hers.

She watched the werecat dash into the ruins as Eragon approached the smooth, brown surface. Arya assumed it was dirt, but a closer inspection revealed its rocky nature. A tough one at that. She heard not what Angela told him. Her words were too faint.

Then, it was Eragon who uttered something. Arya did not know the meaning, although there was a strange power dwelling within their resonance.

Arya suddenly quivered. In that same moment, both Eragon and Angela disappeared. Was it a teleporting spell of some sort? Eragon possessed the knowledge, but not the strength to carry two.

Stormonyx the Lasting, he said. The name itself made Arya shuddered. She tried to speak it, but something prompted her not to. It was ancient and powerful. Somewhat private.

It was Eragon's True Name.


	63. Hope

Saphira backed away warily, a low growl humming in her throat. The soft sound wasn't supposed to deter the other dragon. She was equally enticed by his alluring scent, the warm, pleasant color of his glistening hide that sparkled like bright rubies. Yet, she did not encourage him to approach her.

His head bowed, Thorn slowly moved towards her, nipping at her tail gently. Remarkably, Thorn had somehow regained his vigor. He wasn't the dead dragon she expected to encounter, but a powerful, majestic male. And he found her first.

Hissing slightly, Saphira abruptly turned her body, regarding the male with clenched jaws that trapped his neck. He tersely squirmed in her grip, testing the force of her grip. When pleas, accompanied by delicate hums failed, the mighty tail intervened, shadowed by impressive unfurled wings. Saphira was not only forced to relinquish her prey, but subdue to the male who playfully rammed into her, gaining the upper position.

The impact sent shudders across Saphira's frame. Her limbs helplessly grabbed, scratched and pushed against his impressive bulk. Her tail, pinned under Thorn's, could barely twitch. Saphira growled, snarled, hissed like a brewing storm, struggling to release herself, to continue the prelude to a moment she yearned for.

Thorn, however, growled tenderly, arching his neck towards hers. A few encouraging licks across her scales, and Saphira's throat vibrated with the same hum of joy. Thorn overpowered her. Because she surrendered.

But the male was not interested in petty brawls. Overwhelmed by her sweet, enthralling scent, Thorn intently sniffed a certain area of her exposed underbelly. A warm, smooth surface slide across it.

Saphira shuddered, shifting on her side instinctively. Her body claimed by a much too powerful lust, she could not deny the male his well-earned right. After all, he did overpower her, even if she fought poorly.

Thorn towered above her. In this moment, when her choice had been made, Saphira was not certain if Thorn was the right mate, if he was the dragon she always craved. But she was tired of being alone, and her desire to mate was strong.

Muffled roars rippled through the forest. Saphira's hind paws twitched and gripped at nothingness. Her tail rocked to the sides, bending, curling around Thorn's in an attempt to pin it down. This new, fiery sensation she felt was so intense that her body felt numb. It squirmed and raked at her lower belly gently, dispersing into tingles of elation.

Like her dazzling flames, the ephemeral delight extinguished as fast as it exploded to life. With it gone, her senses felt dull, as if life itself fled them. The blurred excitement slowly faded. Only Thorn's growl maintained part of its former smoldering mass. That, too, stopped when he surfaced from her depths and lay beside her, licking her snout frantically, expressing his gratitude for allowing him to mate her. To Saphira, the reason did not matter. Thorn's licking was filled with affection and desire for her, and Saphira wanted nothing more than feeling his caressing tongue across her scales.

Under Saphira's hum of delight, confusion dwelled. Influenced by the turmoil of her pressing instincts, she mated. Not because Thorn was her mate—after all, she loosely allowed the only male dragon to smother the urge that slowly consumed her. She wanted not to be alone anymore.  
Thorn sought her. In spite of the hate Eragon bore for him, Thorn came to her. What had that proven to her?

Saphira rested her head on his paws, surrendering to his pleasant treatment. She was not yet convinced of Thorn's intentions and capabilities.

Eragon's betrayal still weighed hard on her. Without her approval, he brutally assaulted her mind, using her own energy against the same dragon that mated her. Eragon—her partner of mind and soul—was a hypocrite.

Instead of being sullen at a puny human, Saphira vented her rage on Thorn. Agilely, she slithered her snout past the darting tongue and gently gripped his serpentine neck in her jaws. Before the surprised dragon could react, Saphira tackled his jerking limbs using her own, growling victoriously.

In her haste, however, she allowed the loose tail to swat her side, unbalancing what was supposed to be an unyielding pose. Leaves rustled. Dust rose in the air, perturbed by the commotion. Before Saphira could sway him off, Thorn wrestled her down. From her lower position, she could barely twitch under his stronger, more muscular form. But instead of displaying his dominance, Thorn released her captive tail and feet and licked her neck soothingly. Then, it stopped.

Something prodded at her underbelly. Growling harshly, Saphira's limbs jerked with force, digging into Thorn's haunches and side. Her maw, clenched around his vulnerable neck, added pressure until blood trickled between her teeth. Thorn roared—a weak, muffled roar of submission. It was not an attack, but a warning, and Thorn promptly complied.

Moving away from Thorn, Saphira curled her body on the soft grass, watching Thorn closely. The wound she inflicted was located on the upper part of his neck, and he could not reach it, despite his attempts. With no success, Thorn crashed his jaw on the ground. A deep feeling of confusion settled in his eyes, matching Saphira's sprouting regret.

She did not know why her retaliation had been so fierce. At that moment, it felt natural. Her instincts urged her to punish Thorn, and she obeyed, for instincts were never wrong. Still, she could not comprehend the reason behind fending off a dragon that had already mated with her. Ever since she encountered Thorn in the Beors, her body felt alien to her.

When the land gave her no peace, Saphira took to the skies. She grudgingly abandoned Thorn, leaving behind a wounded, confused dragon.

Among the clouds and winds, Saphira hoped the air currents would carry away her troubles, but the farther she flew, the more she missed Thorn. There were times when Saphira relished the wind under her wings, the verdant forests below, the warmth of the sun upon her scales.

Back then, she wasn't alone, confused and not in control. An impressionable hatchling, both she and her Rider learned the ways of life by helping one another. Her wisdom tutored Eragon, who, in turn, shared the meaning behind life experience.

Raised as a bonded dragon, Saphira's instincts remained dormant. In a world conquered by intellect, the ways of the wild were often contested and frowned upon. It was a confusing world of customs and laws. Without Eragon, Saphira would not have found her place in it, no matter how much the Riders of Old worked to make it possible.

It was during the travel to Ellesmera when she was first surprised by the power of her instincts. A small smoldering spark, which had been all forgotten, began to crackle and expand, its dim light reawakening a powerful yet somewhat familiar sensation of longing for something she had been deprived since she hatched.

At that time, she did not know what it was, nor could she discover why this mysterious and slightly tormenting feeling that claimed a part of her mind assumed control. Without understanding its cause, there was no way to put an end to it. She yearned for a change that would fill this expanding gap, but even Eragon, her partner of mind and soul, could not offer what she was looking for.

When she met Glaedr, joy and happiness surged through her. She was not alone, after all, and the majestic golden dragon whose scales sparkled like fiery embers when the light reflected off them was a living proof that her race was not completely dead. But there was something else she felt, something hidden, and only now was she able to decipher this complex feeling that ceaselessly nudged her mind and sharpened her instincts.

However, her enthusiasm was unrequited by the older dragon, who did not appear to share her interest. Persistent as she was, Saphira never felt discouraged. After all, Glaedr was one of the last dragons, and that strange feeling that she began to grow accustomed to spurred her into following her instincts and sway her rational side away. It was a battle she could not win, and by accepting her inner turmoil, Saphira felt relieved of a burden and ready to tackle any challenge that might prevent her from fulfilling what that ardent desire commanded her to.

Everything revolved around Glaedr. Every ounce of her increased energy was solely used on capturing the male's attention through a series of curt displays of power, aerial maneuvers and even soft nuzzles and licks, whenever they would rest after the exhausting training sessions. Although she tried her best to respect the rigors of her training, her mind simply refused to obey, and Glaedr himself grew irritated with how much attention he suddenly began to receive.

Almost unsympathetic to her efforts, Glaedr merely focused on her training, nothing else. But unreturned feelings had a deeper meaning, and Saphira's persistence and stubbornness could not be defeated by a male's indifference. She had to win. She knew she could. A dragon's instincts were never wrong, and she solely relied on them during that time.

Alas, Glaedr yet again proved her wrong. By rejecting her through a fierce attack, he completely shattered her hopes, throwing her into a deep state of sadness and confusion. Not even her bond with Eragon was powerful enough to mend her inner wounds in an instant.

Days had passed, and the urge her instincts pressed against her began to subside. She had felt a deep and consuming regret for the slow vanishing of that strange feeling that now blackened out, reducing to a mere smoldering and unnoticed spark.

Returning to her senses, Saphira felt guilty for what she did to Thorn. A male dragon was finally enticed by her, and she brutally rejected him. Almost the same way Glaedr had rejected her.  
Saphira extended her wings into a glide, swerving to her left, where the air currents were not so strong. As she turned to face the wind, a much too familiar smell trapped in her nostrils. Unlike her—a dragon terrified by mistakes—Thorn braved the skies, following her trail, accepting his mistake.

In an instant, Saphira broke into a dive, an azure spear that splintered the sky. The winds howled harshly, their might almost perilous for a dragon that had no intentions to fly idly. The forest below was patched with clearings, and Saphira skillfully darted through the thick canopies, allowing her extended wings to reduce the momentum that preceded the landing.

As soon as she touched the earth, Saphira lowered herself to the ground, like a cat ready to pounce on its prey.

Thorn landed not far away from her. Saphira trudged her body over the moist soil, raking the dirt with her sharp claws. The sparkling water present on plants, leaves and grass transferred on her light colored underbelly scales, coating them with fresh smelling grime.

No smell mattered to her. The plants lost their alluring fragrance, and the sky was a wan, lackluster mass of color and space that failed to sparkle with crimson brilliance, like the dragon in front of her.

When she was close enough, Saphira licked his snout a few times and rolled on her side, pawing at Thorn playfully. Humming softly, Thorn nuzzled her snout affectionately and nipped her paw. There was a reluctance in his sluggish moves, a hint of hesitation in his delicate strokes of tongue.

Slightly irritated, Saphira shifted on her belly and fidgeted around him impatiently. For him, the attack bore a deeper meaning, but Saphira persistently strolled in front of him, growling lustfully and occasionally exposing her belly.

Her efforts paid off. With his doubts abolished, Thorn's moist tongue darted out, brushing against her snout lovingly.

Pleased with the attention she received, Saphira grumbled with delight. She was not alone anymore. There was no reason to doubt Thorn, even if they had not been sympathetic to one another in the past.

Thorn had been an enemy. The soft rumbling, the hum of joy, the inquisitive poking at her underbelly were once the fierce growls of battle, the roars of enmity. She only approached him during a battle; in no way to satisfy the urge of her instincts.

Instead of pushing him away aggressively, Saphira allowed him to sniff and lick her underbelly. It took her a mistake to realize that Thorn was a suitable mate, while her wildness prevented Saphira from acknowledging the trust Thorn harbored for her.

From her lower position, she buffeted Thorn with a flick of her wings and licked him encouragingly. Her nostrils flared with anticipation, her hind paws brushing and clawing gently against Thorn's front legs. The choice had already been made. Thorn would be her mate.

Saphira growled in delight when a presence poked her underbelly. For a female, allowing a male to surmount her challenges, her fiery passion, her enthusiastic nature and demanding playfulness by giving him the privilege to brave her silken depths was the ultimate display of trust. Only after this mating ritual should Thorn rightfully bear the trust reserved only for the one Saphira would call her mate.

A low roar of delight erupted from Saphira's throat as a mystifying mix of pleasure and fiery passion consumed her. Ethereal embers seemed to shift in and out of existence, poking at her scales playfully, tickling her warmer-than-usual body. Fluttering her wings docilely, her hind paws brushed against Thorn's flanks involuntarily, claws trying to grab onto something. Her tail, wrapped around the base of Thorn's own lengthy tail, applied a little pressure every time he would lower his hindquarters, closing the distance between their bellies. The bulging muscles of his hind legs acquired a slight shiver, and Saphira could only suspect the reason for it.

The mating itself brought pleasure to both of them, encouraging their kind to produce offspring using an ancient yet effective method to pair two dragons. But more important than that, however, was the unyielding bond of trust that thickened its form. It was the trust that made Thorn the right choice for mate, having all the qualities and abilities needed to care for her and their future hatchlings. A male that oozed confidence was often the best choice for a female.

Saphira's limbs jerked slightly, her head inching closer to Thorn. The sensitive and stimulated walls of her depths contracted and relaxed rapidly around the intrusive member which ceaselessly brushed against them, its moves slow, enticing, in a repeating cycle. Consumed by pleasure, Saphira's body shuddered as she extended her neck, nipping gently at Thorn's paw.

Fettered by the thrill of the mating, Thorn arched his head, clenching his jaws around her neck. He bit at her scales repeatedly, licking her between each bite.

The dragoness roared, the sound not harsh and full of rage, but melodic and soft. Her mind became clouded, the fiery pleasure that engulfed her body preventing her from focusing on anything else that did not include the mating. Thorn's bites became stings, the soft scratches at her haunches mere itches.

With the mating past its pinnacle, the male emitted a similar piercing sound, and then, the fuzzy presence that clouded Saphira's mind began to lessen in intensity. The delight of the mating, the fiery pleasure, the instincts that overpowered her, it all came to an end as Thorn oozed hope in her underbelly. Together, they would resurrect their once thriving species.

* * *

Saphira felt restless after the mating, and she chose to spend all that unused energy in battling Thorn.

At first, Saphira assumed that agility and speed would grant her victory. Thorn's constitution and skills, however, provided worthy traits. When Saphira swiped her tail at him approaching form, Thorn advanced through her powerful hit and used the momentum to topple the surprised dragoness.

Defeat was not sour at all. The victor soothingly licked the overpowered, and Saphira relished the touch of his caressing tongue.

In Thorn's presence, she felt alive. Unknown reserves of energy—even wrestling skills she was not aware of—came to her aid from the unfathomable depth of her wild side. Among the presence of her own kin, Saphira could unleash her ferocity without the fear of hurting her mate. In the sky, Thorn flew besides her—not a burden saddled on her back.

Saphira shivered slightly, her tail coiling around her mate's when Thorn licked her sensitive underbelly. She was vaguely aware of her mesmerizing scent, and Thorn seemed particularly interested in that certain area. Saphira had to bite his neck lightly to gain back his attention, and with it, the pleasant licking.

But that too bored Saphira. After nuzzling Thorn's chest—all the way up to his jaw, Saphira hummed playfully and moved away from the shadow of the trees, into the clearing. Thorn shortly followed her. This time, Saphira wanted to win a flying contest without a head start.

By frantically flapping her mighty wings, Saphira faced fatigue faster than Thorn, who trailed behind her. Their target was a ledge in the mountains that overlooked the gorge.

Being the more experienced flier, Saphira skillfully made use of her knowledge and training with Glaedr. On upward currents, Saphira glided. Against gusts, she flapped with force, trying to defeat them swiftly.

Thorn was not quite majestic, but his stamina lasted longer than hers. Saphira narrowly won the contest against a lesser flier with better endurance. She dwelled not on it, however. More urgent thoughts demanded her attention.

Saphira looked over the gullies that made up the gorge. The wind howled relentlessly, whistling against their huddled forms. With their wings tucked to battle the ferocious wind, the dragons had to preserve heat by staying close to each other.

Somewhere below, her deluded Rider continued his absurd quest. Having discovered a part of her wild nature, Saphira cared little about a human that granted her nothing but captivity, false promises and betrayal. Left, his party moved.

Saphira roared harshly, unleashing her inner flame. With her mate perched next to her, Saphira was no longer alone. By mating repeatedly with Thorn, she would soon lay eggs. The part of her life as a bonded dragon was over.

Even if the significance of this place eluded Thorn, he still licked Saphira. She welcomed his comforting and reassuring touch by rubbing her cheek against his neck affectionately. Her link with Eragon was a trick of magic. Easily forgotten, unlike her bond created with Thorn. This bond was hers, and they were both equal. Not dragon and burden on her back. But two distinct beings of the sky.

Positioning herself against the wind, Saphira unfurled her wings and plunged into the chilling breeze, flying to the right side of the gorge and beyond. To a place where Eragon could not find her.


	64. Chapter 64

Eragon did not know his True Name. Somehow, the words surfaced in his mind, emerging on their own accord. They stood in his faded memory, trapped, waiting for his calling.

"The antechamber," Angela said sternly. "Crolis-Vaden has its own history, but Solembum and I called it the Vault of Souls for you."

Eragon blinked, puzzled. He had been teleported somewhere after speaking a True Name he never knew. For the first time since Saphira's departure, he felt overwhelmed.

The chamber they were in glistened with the faint azure light of what Eragon assumed to be crystals. They pulsed with magical energy, a source of power greater and wider than Glaedr's eldunari.

As Eragon's eyes adjusted to the darkness, he was able to distinguish the shapes on the smooth, rocky walls. There were strange drawings and runes. And statues.

Eragon did not notice them before, but each of the five corners held a statue. At their feet rested patches of crystals, shining in different colors. There were blue, yellow, green, orange. The one in front of him sparkled with an ominous grayish light.

Puzzled, Eragon looked around. It wasn't the permeating penumbra that unnerved him, or the strange drawings.

The answer came to him when he glanced behind. Doors were conspicuously missing.

"Eragon."

Eragon quivered when he noticed Angela's hand on his cheek.

The merriness he grew accustomed to was gone, replaced by a severe voice and an austere gaze. "Since I cannot let you die, I feel we need to settle certain precautions."

Eragon frowned. He did not like that word, not when it meddled with his recent experience and the veiling darkness that revealed nothing to the eye.

"We will face certain obstacles, ones that I alone am going to handle. To put it short, you are simply too weak."

Eragon nodded dumbly, accepting her claims halfheartedly. The Void encouraged him. Gave him strength. Much of his previous life was gone. It had flown away on Saphira's wings. Yet the Void had not betrayed him so far. It wanted not to harm, but to help.

Eragon followed Angela to a darkened section of the wall. No strange crystals coated its indecipherable surface.

"Karthin," Angela said, pointing at something Eragon could not see or read. "The rune for might."

The room suddenly dispersed and reformed before his eyes, only that something was different. The yellow crystals glowed with a strong, garish light, their energy engulfing most of the chamber.

When Eragon looked up, he noticed that this room—like its predecessor—had a ceiling sprinkled with crystals of the same color as the rest, each spreading rays only lesser than the sun. Not to the point where Eragon had to squint, but powerful enough to reveal the whole room to him. The same encasing emptiness.

And a thick pillar in the middle.

"Stay next to me," Angela said from his left, her eyes analyzing the pillar with inward satisfaction. A trace of familiarity with this place rested on her smooth features. No herbalist—not even a mad one—could speak with unyielding certainty like she did.

"We have to cross four of these testing rooms," she said. "Their purpose is to test the capabilities of beings such as me. There is no need for selfless displays."

Crossing implied being in different rooms. Eragon assumed that the room had not changed, that they merely changed one room for another by teleporting. Like they did before.

Many questions swarmed through Eragon's mind. Instinct urged him to wash away his confusion, to talk to Angela.

_It does not really matter_, the Void said. She knows what she is doing. _You are in no danger as long as you listen to her. _

A thunderous sound put Eragon on guard. His frame tense, he squinted through some strange, irritating fog to determine the source of the commotion. He saw Angela moving towards the middle. She beckoned at him.

The room suddenly felt smaller. As Eragon crossed the dense fog, he realized that it did not block the light of the upper crystals. Most of it chocked the ones protruding from the floor by settling on them.

When Eragon reached Angela's side and glimpsed a large, circular rune underneath their feet, he realized that they stood where the pillar should have been. That thick cloud was not fog, but dust.

Angela reduced a tall, thick pillar to fine powder.

"Mursvr," Angela said, pointing below. "It means acuity."

Again, the room changed. Unlike the previous two, thin columns decorated it, apart from the gleaming yellowish crystals. Spread throughout the cubic room, the columns were too tall to climb and thin enough to support a single person. Eragon was bewildered.

"In a place without doors, all that you can do it teleport," Angela said, eyeing the pillars. "No wonder they included a test for it."

Eragon knew not who 'they' were. It was irrelevant, despite the vague clue circling in his mind.

"Lack of precision killed certain dumb mages," Angela noted. "Quick reflexes could have saved them, yet brawn alone wins nothing."

Angela glanced at Eragon, then vanished into thin air.

Eragon watched her as she skillfully teleported from one column to another, pausing for a few moments between attempts. A single teleportation would kill him before the plunge, yet she hurdled from one pillar to another with eerie precision.

After teleporting from the fifth pillar—the last—Angela scuttled to a section of the wall where no crystals tarnished its surface.

Angela was already leaning towards the wall, drawing over the smooth surface before Eragon arrived. The darkness concealed her tool that seemed to turn its tough surface to dust before its wake.

"One of the pillars had this object," she said, standing. The tool disappeared before Eragon had the chance to glimpse it. "The others showed which section to mark."

Peeking around the room, Eragon noticed several areas devoid of crystals, each a perfect replica of the one Angela drew her rune on.

A nudge in the ribs brought forth a groan from his parched throat.

"Zriss. It means reflexes."

The room changed before Eragon had the chance to dwell on Angela's power. Locked in a new room—with a new test awaiting—Eragon relinquished his stubborn curiosity.

_It happens without your accord_, the Void said. _Might as well give up. The outcome remains the same._

The orange light revealed some sort of square shaped object, surrounded by an imperfect circle made of crystals.

"Hmm," Angela grunted, approaching the conspicuous object. While she mumbled to herself, Eragon looked inside.

A strange, glowing surface covered the mouth. Its texture and orange light was similar to that of the crystals, only that it had round holes in it.

Inside, there was water, the shimmer of the light above reflecting on its crystalline surface.

"This one is tricky," Angela looked up at him, smiling.

"They want us to get what is in the water and place them there," she said, pointing at a round surface carved into the stone not far from them.

"I have my means, unlike their apprentices."

A shudder ran through Eragon's body when a square shaped block of ice appeared on his left. Feeling the urge to inspect it, Eragon approached it warily.

"There is nothing to see boy," Angela said from behind.

The surface of the ice was punctured with small, round holes, left behind by the same objects Angela mentioned. Smiling wryly, Eragon made his way towards Angela, ending her furious beckoning.

"Fraav," Angela said. "Endurance."

Before being teleported, Eragon scarcely glimpsed the pile of round stones that made up the rune by joining their scribbled surface together.

"You stay near me," Angela demanded, jerking him forward. The clutch on his wrist was strong enough to force Eragon grit his teeth.

"A lurch on every side, and your lungs burn."

Eragon's eyes narrowed. The light came not from glowing, colored crystals, but from bubbling lava. If Angela's grip failed to stop him, a step forward would have sent Eragon plunging into the molten rock before him.

"Wrap your arms around me," Angela said. "Push me forward, and I swim. Fall, and you roast."

Eragon gulped emptily, his body invaded with apprehension. The narrow ledge they sat on barely allowed him to do Angela's bidding. By now, he was well aware of her powers.

"Keep your body next to me after I enter," Angela said, not turning around.

Before he could confirm with a useless nod, Eragon felt himself dragged forward.

The thick, viscous lava was unlike any water Eragon met. It was hard enough to force them wade through it by shuffling maladroitly, thin enough to threaten balance and way too bright and dense. No matter how hard he tried, Eragon could see nothing.

It was not an environment where he was supposed to be. Angela's spells provided mysterious, powerful wards that kept them from burning, but they did not help with sight.

Kicking at the lava frantically, Eragon managed to stay near Angela. The brightness forced his eyelids shut. All that remained for him was the strong grip around her waist.

The heat tugged at his meat. Suddenly, it felt warmer, more powerful. Suffocating. Sweat cowered before it, air seethed and churned. What was happening? His grip was still strong. Angela's slender body still leaned against his chest.

_The wards_, Eragon forced himself to think. Angela was weakening. Because of her, he would die.

Desperately, Eragon reached inside the well within him, drawing energy. The magic churned expectantly, waiting for his command. But what was he to do? Oromis himself would perish instantly. No spell could discourage such intense heat.

Eragon erected wards. They dissipated in an instant, weakening him in the process.

He could not breathe. The skin burned, flesh shriveled. Without Saphira, he was nothing. A Rider that died because of fire.

Eragon collapsed on the floor, groaning sickly.

Powerful energy resided near him. He could feel it, tap into it. Use it. Eragon fueled his strength and erected wards. Unlike before, they lasted.

"Come on, come," a voice said urgently.

Eragon forced his eyes open. There was no brightness. Only a deep darkness.

Eragon pushed himself upwards. A strange dust coated his hands and clothing, and there was no lava. What happened to it?

He felt an unyielding grip on his wrist. So powerful, that his legs shuffled forward on their own. The same invigorating energy washed over Eragon, clearing his mind, pushing cold air into his nostrils. Lifting his ache.

The energy belonged to Angela.

"Gravs," Angela said, even though Eragon couldn't see it. "It means grey."

"Don't fall," Angela said curtly, almost impatiently. "Come here, to this upper one."

Eragon's mind stirred, threatening to erupt. So many things happened. Too much for his hazy comprehension.

He almost died. Saphira betrayed him. Arya lost her beauty.

_Do it,_ the Void encouraged him. We've been through much already. _What matters an extra task?_

Eragon carefully approached Angela. She sat on the rim of the strangely shaped rift, pointing at something the size of a pebble. It looked like a crystal, but something twirl and churned inside it, and its light was too dim.

The indistinctly shaped rift was not deep. It had layers decorated with the same strange things Angela insistently pointed at. Some small, others bigger.

None shone intensely like the crystal sitting at the bottom. Its light was powerful enough to reveal the grey, smooth ceiling of the chamber and hint the similar nuance of the walls. No crystals pierced this room.

"Stop looking around," Angela pressed her words. "Touch it."

Eragon learned not to argue. Angela brought him here safely. If this was the Vault of Souls, then the little pebble held the power to defeat Galbatorix.

Eragon shuffled towards it and extended a hand towards the pebble.

He touched its surface.

Waves upon waves of foreign words converged on his unprepared mind, each more tempting, more resonant than the other. They flowed tumultuously, an organized river of enticement ancient and potent in power. Confusion only restrained Eragon from thinking that word.

Eragon's lips parted involuntarily. He tried to whisper something. It was a shackled force, trying to come out when mind refused to allow it.

His hand suddenly flared with pain. Reacting to it, Eragon stood up, glancing at the scratch curtly.

My spell will prevent magic from reacting to the words you think, but it does not last forever, Angela said. You better learn to control yourself, or search for the only Rider capable of controlling the same power.

Eragon looked to his left, where Angela was.

There was no Angela.

Eragon looked down. Instead of Angela, a tawny cat with green eyes stared at him intently. It was slightly bigger, with a clean fur streaked with white, uneven lines. Apart from her different coloring, she was quite similar to Solembum.

A werecat.

The words you hear are the spells of the grey folk, Angela said. Their power remained untarnished.

Angela inspected her body while Eragon stared at her dumbly. There was much he did not know, yet one question had to find its answer.

_Why are you a werecat?_

_I was born this way_, Angela said, meeting his eyes.


	65. Mates

**This is a very short chapter, I know, but its bigger brother is going to follow later this day. Only three chapters left before this book ends!**

Arya jolted at the disturbance. Scrambling on her feet, she dusted off her tunic nervously, eyeing the man who appeared in front of her out of thing air.

It was Eragon. He teleported in front of the same rock wall where he previously disappeared. And he seemed to be alone. Where was Angela?

Arya knew they had been deceived. It wasn't the tomes that helped Angela find her way. She always seemed to know where to go, what to find. The way they stumbled upon the Rock of Kuthian puzzled Arya at first, but it was now clear. No tome had helped Angela. She knew precisely where it was.

Strange growls roused Arya's attention. One belonged to Solembum. The other was similar, but somewhat softer.

Another werecat—one that Arya did not recognize—circled him impatiently, brushing her head and body against him enticingly. The same behavior Arya witnessed at the Rock of Kuthian repeated itself. Only that this time, it barely lasted. When the tawny werecat dropped on her belly in front of Solembum, he mounted her.

Amidst the purring and soft growls, Arya merely stood, watching the two werecats that mated in front of her.


	66. Uru'baen

_Werecats cannot enter Crolis-Vaden—the Vault of Souls— on their own. I needed a certain part of a True Name, one that you possessed._

Angela lay next to Solembum, purring in delight at the tongue strokes against her face. She told Eragon that Solembum was her mate, that she would help him no longer. Her part in the war ended when Eragon touched that strange pebble, returning Angela to her original form.

That crystal you have seen, Angela said, getting up, is the attempt of a certain Grey Folk to contain all that devastating magic. Every True Name—the Ancient Language itself—resides within it, among the names of Grey Folk alike. Fate made it that you and Galbatorix held a fragment of the name of a Grey Folk in your own True Names. And only they could enter this city by speaking their names.

Pensive, Eragon rested his head on his fist, elbow propped against the higher part of the column he sat on. Moonlight revealed the two werecats, its light powerful enough to unveil the lithe grace in their dash, the agility displayed when playing and leaping over the scattered obstacles. Eragon could not tell which one was Angela. He did not particularly care.

The foreign words still plagued his mind, forced his lips open, tempted him to utter and unleash their power. Angela barely spoke to him about them. Instead of helping him understand, she told him to force his lips shut at night by uttering a spell she taught him. What good would that do?

While Angela and Solembum played with each other, Eragon was tormented by the words. The strain it took to suppress them fatigued Eragon. He was a resilient pillar against the surging waters of a river. Its might defied the flow for now, but it could not last forever.

After playing, Solembum and Angela mated. Seeing them huddled, hearing their melodic purr and low growls brought shivers to Eragon. His skin prickled with a strange, almost forgotten nostalgia.

_She betrayed you_, the Void whispered. _She will not come back._

"Eragon?"

He didn't sway the head to look behind.

"How did I get here?"

Arya sat on his left, frowning slightly.

"Everything differed."

Eragon stood straight, placing his hands on his lap. Did the outcome really matter? The words would still plague his mind.

"Not only the journey, but Angela," Arya said. "She needed us. More than we exploited her abilities."

She paused for a moment, adopting a pensive look.

"How did she even transform?" Arya inquired, placing a hand on his shoulder. "The sun barely moved in the sky before you returned with a werecat instead of her."

Eragon regarded Arya for a moment. She knew so little. Confiding in her meant trading words for nothingness.

He shrugged off that burden on his shoulder before, most of the time without thinking. Arya might have lost her beauty, yet her daunting persistence showed him something. Despite her uselessness, she cared.

Even if she does, the Void intervened. That cannot help you. Only her information can.

Eragon did not remove her hand.

"She was a werecat," he said, fighting his own instincts, not only the Void. "Somehow, I helped her trade that form for this one."

"You helped her?" Arya asked, looking into the distance. Both Angela and Solembum vanished into the night. They had each other's company. Eragon had no lasting bond. It flew away because of enemies.

"I don't know how," Eragon said curtly. Telling her about the words was a mistake. The Void warned him of this moment, when companions asked and pondered without offering relief in return.

"We touched something and it happened."

Eragon frowned, turning around to avoid Arya's doubtful gaze. The words started after he touched that faint glowing pebble. Angela had merely pointed at it. She never touched it. Yet she changed. Angela told him that he needed him to teleport into the Vault of Souls, but it was she who insisted to the point where he blatantly obeyed in that last room.

Eragon shrugged. Pondering the past was useless.

"Ellesmera holds no scrolls related to the Grey Folk or this city," Arya said, scrambling on her feet.

Eragon let her walk into the night without interfering.

The Void was right.

* * *

Eragon squinted at the morning sky. Light irritated him after a cold night without sleep, no matter how much the clouds reduced its intensity.

Controlling his trembling lips turned to be a demanding task, one that had to turn into a habit. Angela's spell bestowed tranquility upon him over the night at the cost of physical fatigue, yet the words bashed at his mind with renewed vigor. Protection meant no peace. Eragon had the whole night at his disposal to realize it.

This journey had taken Saphira away from him and stole Arya's comforting touch. His life switched from the hopeful one of a Rider to the loneliness of a taciturn peasant. He was not a Rider anymore. He had relinquished everything for a surge of bothersome, useless words that could kill him during sleep.

_Your journey has not ended._

Angela brushed her body against his legs, rubbing her cheek on his leggings. Solembum used to do that to her, though the reason always evaded Eragon.

_There are certain wishes that had not been fulfilled. _

Angela jumped from one fragment of a spire to the other, settling on the ground when stone provided no comfort. It was the first time since her transformation when Eragon saw her without Solembum. As mates, they barely parted ways.

Eragon pondered her words for a moment. One wish was more prominent.

_Saphira,_ Eragon said. _She betrayed me, yet…_

Eragon paused. Saphira's stubbornness brought this misery upon him. She did this to him willingly. She almost killed him. Why was he sorely missing her? What was this desperation that gnawed at his being when he remembered her name?

_I don't even know where she is,_ he said, feeling a strong urge to shed tears. Were it not for the words, he would have done so already.

_The green egg remained in Galbatorix's possession,_ Angela said, leaping on a rock closer to him. _The dragon within has its influence on your life. _

Eragon frowned. Angela mentioned the king's name before, referring to him as the last of the old Riders. He somehow learned to control the words. He was Eragon's enemy.

To steal the egg, Eragon had to enter Uru'baen undisturbed. To learn suppress the words, he needed to scout through Galbatorix's palace.

Eragon's eyes widened. The Vault of Souls had not been a waste. It had provided exactly what he needed.

Abandoning her perch, Angela dashed past Eragon, greeting Arya in her own peculiar way. Eragon couldn't know if her words were prophetic, destined to birth a ploy in his mind. Solembum interfered with his destiny already. Maybe fate wanted him to follow an exact path.

Our ways part, Angela said, glancing at them both. _I do not belong among the Varden, but I can return you to them._

Arya nodded curtly, taking no time to ponder Angela's words.

Before Angela used the spell, Eragon cut in.

I cannot return to them as a Rider without a dragon, he said resolutely. I go to Uru'baen.


	67. A new journey

_I will hunt you one of the larger ones._

_Do not. I'm in no need of meat or anything similar._

_I think you are._

The dragon unveiled the impressive span of his wings and slowly moved them up and down repeatedly.

Murtagh saw it many times already. Stiff wings were weak against the currents of air, and his dragon always did it before parting ways with the ground.

_I still have supplies_, Murtagh said, taking a step closer to the gigantic dragon. He did not want the dragon to leave.

_Enough to feed the swarms dwelling in the ground._

The dragon slowly bended in a crouching position, shading the small flora with his belly.

You arrived recently, and barely rested your wings. Don't exhaust yourself for something so trivial, Murtagh stubbornly insisted. He was the one to provide others, not the other way around. It has been like that since his early life, when his parents left him to starve in exchange for a night at the tavern. His father did, at least.

The hardships of life and the difficulty of obtaining a meal hit Murtagh at a fragile age, when many succumbed to illness, hunger or cold and perished. Not him. His father's legacy had been more than lashes and cuts and foul words. Beyond the harshness and the beatings, Murtagh saw opportunity. He was strong enough to endure, and he was witty enough to live on his own, braving the streets with nothing but his will to survive.

His will to become something else than his father.

_You will not feast alone, young one_. The dragon looked at him briefly, then sprang into the air.

Murtagh's dirty raven locks flared to life, stroke by the wind's savage fingers, pressed for the secrets they veiled. And they conceded.

Behind the grim cape of obscurity, the facial features of a young, but hardened man were revealed. Shown, but not easily deciphered. There were no secrets hiding beyond the dehydrated and somewhat bloody lips. The stains on his cheeks – a mixture of blood, dirt and sweat—were still and quiet. The crusty blood that dried on his forehead and the bruised areas spoke of nothing but pain, both past and recent.

But the eyes were different. They eyes, a sea of blackness so calm and tranquil voiced their solitude. He was alone.

Murtagh watched the sky until the dimming form of the dragon was swallowed by the vast expanse where bright orange hues raged battle with their darker counterparts.

Murtagh frowned. He was not interested in the outcome of this conflict. He witnessed the repetitive ending long enough to guess what would happen this day and the days that followed.

The only difference was that his bright sun, which held the balance between light and darkness, had timely set.

Murtagh walked lifelessly towards the outpost he raised a day earlier. He named it like that because of the large tree that rose like a watch tower. The outpost itself was a mass of branches and long stalked plants carefully piled on top and next to each other, with leaves and foliage covering the whole thing. It was a living tent more than an outpost, but Murtagh didn't care. The second one sounded more sturdy.

Moving past the charred remnants of a fire, Murtagh crouched and entered the tend. And, crouched in that uncomfortable burrow, he waited.

Murtagh lived in the wilderness for a few days. How many, he did not count. Nor did he care about them. Time lost its beauty and nature its colors when he was left alone.

Murtagh sighed, huddling his knees close to his chest. It was getting dark, and cold was creeping in. The outpost was a pitiful source of warmth, for it had cracks and open places. Clothes were even more unreliable, too gashed, punctured or ripped to keep warm. Fire warmed better than poth, but the effort of setting it was too daunting.

The food and the supplies betrayed Murtagh when he needed them most. A few pieces of dried bread stained with blues, grays and greens had not been enough to sustain him. There was meat—considerable amounts of it—left from Thorn's hunts, but they were the first to go bad along with everything in the saddle bag.

The lust forests offered food and protection, but only to those native to the region. For newcomers, shelter was easy to find but nourishment was a different matter.

_I could have gone with him. If only I insisted more…_

But that was only wishful thinking. The task assigned to them by Galbatorix had developed unpredictable complications. Thorn explained to Murtagh what these complications were about with surprising openness and literally no concealment. Saphira was going through one of her reproduction sycles, and Murtagh had a male dragon accompanying him. The result was inevitable.

Murtagh knew this would happen. Thorn had become agitated, restless, and somewhat erratic before he and Saphira had the chance to be separated by no more than a few feet. Once that happened, Thorn's thoughts had been whipped into a frenzy Murtagh did not think possible. His dragon, his Thorn… wishing to abandon his bonded partner so he could mate with one of his kind.

Murtagh could not even digest the abruptness with which the events rolled when Thorn left him.

No words.

No touch.

No warning.

He just flew away, leaving Murtagh shocked and confused. And now, after days since his departure, Murtagh was sitting in his hand-made shelter, trying to resign with the life he lived until now; a life where he was warmed by the burning fire instead of Thorn's inner warmth, protected by branches and leaves instead of the caressing ruby wing. A life not unlike the one he lived as a child, on the streets of the Empire.

_But he will mate with Saphira_, Murtagh tried to disperse the gloominess from his thoughts_. He will be the savior of his race and sire a bunch of hatchlings even more bothersome than he was._

Murtagh smiled, remembering the joy he felt when Thorn hatched for him. A joy he would not feel for a very long time.

_Curses, _Murtagh shivered. The wind began blowing from the west, the direction which his outpost was facing. Night was coming.

Murtagh crawled away from the shelter. He could warm himself better by moving, and when the dragon returned, he could take shelter under his wing.

* * *

Murtagh's eyes tried not to linger too much on the carcass, but on the one who carried it. Even in the fading light, Murtagh could differentiate the dark hues from the scales of the dragon that blended with the surrounding darkness.

A few more flaps of his massive wings, and the dragon touched the ground in a storm of leaves and debris.

_That's not one of the largest you could catch_, Murtagh said.

The dragon lowered his head, letting the oversized boar fall from his maw.

_It will suffice, he said_. He sniffed the boar briefly, then looked at Murtagh. _Prey loses much of its taste once blood loses warmth and flesh its succulence._

_It tastes the same to me_, Murtagh remarked.

_A dragon would never agree with you._

Murtagh's stomach growled. The dragon's words accentuated the hunger Murtagh tried to quench with the insignificant berries he occasionally found. His body demanded the meat, but his mind vehemently opposed any rushed decisions.

_You refused him,_ his unyielding mind whispered. _You are in no need of meat or anything similar._

Murtagh cursed. His exact words were being thrown at him now that his hunger began to gnaw at his mind.

The dragon growled and tore into the belly of the boar, his front paws keeping the creature steady. Finally, the carcass was being opened.

Blood spilled on the ground, flesh was ripped apart and bones snapped under Murtagh's gaze. Something which seemed brutal at first was now as ordinary as eating fruits. Red or not, they were still fleshy.

The dragon looked at Murtagh again. The Rider met his eyes, but he had yet to grow accustomed to the intensity of the topaz stare.

Minding not what the human did, the dragon rolled the chunk towards Murtagh, pushing it with his half-bloodied snout.

_That is yours._

Murtagh looked towards the dragon.

_It's half_, he said incredulously. _You're giving me half?_

The dragon licked part of the blood coating his snout, revealing the scales underneath.

_ I do._

Murtagh looked down, having troubles in expressing his immediate gratitude. Flesh, succulent meat hid below the thick skin of the boar's hind flanks, and Murtagh knew from Thorn that dragons favored that certain part of the kill.

_It's unfair, Shruikan. I did nothing to deserve it._

The crunching of bones and flesh being sliced resumed.

_You think more than you need to_, Shruikan replied.

Murtagh sighed and unsheathed Zar'roc.

_ I'll need a fire._

* * *

Shruikan's unexpected appearance has filled the punctures left by the disappearance of his partner of mind and soul. Having a dragon beside him, even one that was not bonded to him, helped bridge the holes that were left behind. However, Shruikan's presence, as welcomed as it was, sprouted new worries in Murtagh's mind.

_How did you find me?_

Murtagh sat leaned against Shruikan's foreleg, watching the smoldering coals of the dying campfire.

_By scent_, Shruikan answered, busily licking a paw. _It is easier to smell something than see it_.

Murtagh bit his lip lightly. Could Shruikan know that Saphira was in heat? Did he know bout Thorn? Murtagh wanted to know, but at the same time, he dreaded to hear the answer.

_Did Galbatorix allow you to leave_? Murtagh asked instead.

_Close,_ SHruikan turned his head around. _He banished me._

Murtagh frowned. _What does that mean?_

_It means that he released me_, Shruikan said. _I am free._

Murtagh's frown deepened. _Free? That isn't possible! He would never!_

_What does freedom mean_? Shruikan growled_. Every creature has its choices fettered by its instincts. The need for nutrients or shelter can not be denied willingly. A ground creature can never leave its native grounds, lest be killed by hunger or other predators._

_Acting on your own accord_, Murtagh retorted. _Havng your will be your own._

_Freedom is what you make it to be, not how you understand it. Two legs are free to do as they wish, but they still bount themselves in their own chains._

_I'm confused_, Murtagh gave up. _How did he free you?_

_He ordered me to do as I wish and fly where I wish, young one. That is all there is to it._

Murtagh rose and began pacing around. For some reason, he could not stay idle, not even when his belly was full of meat.

_This is perplexing_, Murtagh kicked a lump of coal. _He's letting you go just like that? He loses so much and gains nothing in return._

Shruikan said nothing, even if his gaze lingered on Murtagh, as if he wanted to explain more.

_He throws his dragon away, but not his slave_, Murtagh clenched and declutched his fists.

_What am I to him? A messenger running errands compared to Shruikan_.

Murtagh kicked another coal, sending it crashing into a tree. He detested being the tool of someone when that someone else was a man powerful enough to take control of his body, violate his mind and learn all of his secrets. All done from the confines of his citadel.

_He's the reason why I lost Thorn._

Murtagh turned to Shruikan.

_Can you tell me more details? I want to know more._

_I can not_, the black dragon responded.

_What of Galbatorix? You know him well enough._

Shruikan said nothing.

Murtagh's jaw clenched, a hiss escaping through his lips.

_Then what of your life? Your past_? Murtagh said insistently, almost angry.

_There are details that should not be uncovered_, Shruikan growled louder than before. _Keeping them veiled in ashes makes them less distracting and much less concerning._

Murtagh wanted to sigh, but a groan of anger came out instead. Shruikan's tangled wordswas distracting enough and far less important than the questions addressed to him.

Suddenly, Shruikan rose from his position. Remaining completely still, Murtagh only watched as the dragon padded towards him, nuzzling his shoulder with surprising care and gentleness.

_Rest under my wing, young one, and leave those thoughts for another day. _

* * *

Murtagh woke up in a much brighter disposition than the previous day, and he had Shruikan to thank for. If it was not for the black dragon, Mrtagh would have slept another cold night with nothing in his belly and nothing to look forward to.

Murtagh blinked once, his eyes fixed on the leathery membrane of Shruikan's wing. How strange it was seeing black instead of red, the color Murtagh grew so accustomed to. He had the opportunity to think or sleep more if he desired to, but most of the times it was Thorn who disturbed his ephemeral rest. Thorn and his various ways of…

_Don't think about it_, Murtagh forced his thoughts on another matter. It had been inappropriate for him to be so angrily inquisitive of Shruikan's life. Not because he was a very old and knowledgeable dragon. That was a pesky detail compared to the horrors Shruikan lived through, like the slaughter of his own kin.

Murtagh did not know if he should apologize because he rarely did. Life had forced him to do inappropriate things to survive, and apologizing was not a way of living. Sympathy or regret did not feed him nor gave him shelter. His parents did not apologize to him when they let Murtagh fend on his own. His father's way of apologizing was even more unusual, offering to split the pain when he came home with the empty casked.

They did not worth it, but Murtagh had apologized to thorn, and not just once.

_Maybe I can persuade Shruikan_, Murtagh thought, unable to keep his mind away from Thorn. _I want to see him, even briefly._

Murtagh gently lifted Shruikan's wing and crouched away from his belly. Then, he carefully passed by his head without disturbing his slumber.

Once he was far away, Murtagh stood up on his legs. He looked around. The outpost was still there, same as the few remaining pieces of burned wood. He could use them, preferably as a last resort.

Murtagh quickly turned his head to the right, where the pieces of the carcass still littered the ground. If there was some skin remaining, he could…

No. The pitiful remains were onlymade of fragments of bone, hooves, and pieces of pierced skin.

Not enough to build a saddle. Not a normal one.

Murtagh again looked at the outpost. With some improvisation and magic, he could work something out.

Murtagh had waited until Shruikan woke up before making any further plans. Once he did, Murtagh allowed him time to stretch his limbs and wings. Every dragon that, including Thorn.

When he was finished, Murtagh walked near him and stroke his snout. Shruikan began to hum, sounding strangely different than what Murtagh remembered.

_Have you sensed Thorn when you were flying?_ Murtagh asked honestly. Those who practiced deceit often won the gamble. Murtagh was far from being a notice, but he did not want to do that to those close to him. Taking advantage of the few bonds he had could shatter them irreversibly.

Shruikan growled and pushed his snout further into Murtagh's arms. He was enjoying his treatment, maybe more than usual.

Then, everything stopped. The reverberating growl, the hum of contentment, everything.

_I did,_ Shruikan snorted, eyeing Murtagh briefly before burying his head under his wing. _But we will not meet him._

_Why?_ Murtagh thought.

_Why not?_ He asked.

_Because it's not possible_, Shruikan said, uncovering his horned head. _And it will not be until several moon cycles have passed._

_That's too long_, Murtagh took a step back, disbelief present in his voice.

_It lasts so because he is not alone._

Murtagh scoffed. _So I won't be able to see him just because he's mating?_

_Precisely_, Shruikan replied. _And we will leave him and Saphira alone for long after, until their offspring will break the shell of their eggs._

_Why are you speaking of we, Shruikan_? Murtagh stepped forward, stroking his neck. _I'm his Rider, and I can't stay away from him for so long._

_It will be painful, but your will cannot change nature's course._

Murtagh tried his best, but Shruikan refused to appear sympathetic to his grief.

_That cannot happen_, Murtagh said. _No Rider could do it, even the ones who perished._

Shruikan remained silent for a while.

_You would accomplish nothing if you go, _a growl materialized from the depths of his onyx scaled neck_. Despite your bond, you will be of no interest to Thorn. If Saphira flies away, he will follow her without you._

Part of Murtagh saw the truth in Shruikan's words. After all, Thorn had abandoned him, but he did not want… He did not want to believe that his dragon, his Thorn, would completely ignore his presence.

_Maybe he already mated_, Murtagh tried one last time. _If he did, he will see reason instead of…_

Shruikan growled_. Dragons do not mate only once, nor do they stop after a day or two. The instincts lessen their grip after a few days of successful mating, but they do not completely vanish. They're only less powerful than during the peak of the female's reproduction cycle._

Murtagh crashed on the ground, hopelessness tugging at his tired mind.

_What will we do, then?_

_We fly away from these mountains._

Murtagh sighed and looked at the obsidian scales. He did that for a good while already. Their color matched the darkness he felt. If he left, every chance of seeing Thorn will vanish.

_That is unneeded_, Murtagh barged in_. I_ _will not disturb him if you wish…_

_I need to keep a safe distance as well._

Murtagh's eyes widened.

_Why?_

_You should be able to understand that on your own. My instincts are no lesser than those of Thorn. If Saphira flies close to us, there is a high possibility of hurting Thorn. Unwillingly_.

_Would you do that_? Murtagh asked incredulously.

_Beyond the shadow of a doubt. Males often compete over a female so only the strongest one will have the possibility to mate her._

_I did not expect that from dragons_, Murtagh said, letting his legs carry him around Shruikan. _But if the instincts are as strong as you said, then your desire to mate must be…_

_Beyond what words could express,_ Shruikan roared, raking the dirt with his paw. _But Thorn had reached Saphira first. If the situation was any different, I would not have hesitated to fly after Saphira, but bringing harm upon Thorn is not something I wish. There are too few of us remaining in this land. _

Murtagh conceded before Shruikan's flawless reasoning, as hard as it was to do that. Stubbornness and persistence have won him many battles, but not one against the raw instincts of a dragon. A selfish act from him would cause irreparable first in his relationship with the dragons, or worse, even the death of one. Knowing that Thorn lived his life as he wanted was much more fulfilling than petting those ruby scales one last time. Until they will be reunited, Murtagh had to settle with thoughts and memories of they times they spent together.

Murtagh lifted his head from the ground and looked at Shruikan.

_How will we fly?_

Shruikan arched his neck, but Murtagh got ahead of him. The missing saddle was the first thing he noticed when he woke up.

_I will carry you in my claws_, Shruikan offered with a soft growl. Murtagh knew that he itched for that for a while.

Murtagh smiled weakly, _What about a saddle made from sticks and leaves?_

_I will not deny it if it holds during flight,_ Shruikan nudged, then nuzzled Murtagh. _I doubt it will._

And so Murtagh was left with no options he would normally consider. Unfortunately, choices were out of his reach.

Murtagh cut the empty sack that he placed in the main chamber of his impenetrable outpost. With it, he reinforced his torn clothes by adding new fabric that strengthened the old. Not for cold, but for precautions – and hopefully, but not likely comfort.

After he prepared himself, he let Shruikan know that he is ready.

And ready he was.

_I was not expecting that sort of lifting_, Murtagh groaned. He had not been ready. Far from it. Clothes turned out to be unreliable, and the sack of precautions – and hopefully, comfort—offered none of what it promised.

_I am carrying you in my hind legs_, _Murtagh_, Shruikan said_. It was the only possibility. Otherwise, we would still be on the ground._

_You are carrying me like prey_! Murtagh noted with astute confidence. _I believed you were going to use your others._

Murtagh heard Shruikan's faint growl. _I could, but the prey usually oozes more blood when I do that._

_That's because you lack a delicate touch_, Murtagh said sarcastically.

_We are not made to be delicate, _Shruikan said_. Except for when we are mating._

_What other things you do when you mate?_

Murtagh's question was not answered, but filled with details he did not expect. Thorn did not back down from detailing 'things which two legs found improper and worth of hiding beyond cloth', as he said. Now, Shruikan was strengthening Murtagh;s assumption and enriching his knowledge, at the same time. And in exchange of one – apparently—harmless question, Murtagh obtained a whole encyclopedia. Close to no effort required.

_That… is so complicated_, Murtagh said. He forgot about the pain of his punctured skin, the discomfort of Shruikan's claws, and that he was flying in the place where a dead deer usually stood.

_It may seem so, but most of it comes instinctively._

_But you're sentient_, Murtagh said. _I never expected instincts to guide you as they do._

_They are part of what makes us wild and closer to nature. We live as any other creature does, except two-legs. They break what is natural and shape it according to their whims_.

_Maybe you are right_, Murtagh agreed without a shadow of a doubt. Perhaps spending so much time among dragons made his beliefs less human. Perhaps his recent found knowledge would be more useful than anticipated.

The time spent in Shruikan's hind claws had certain advantages. The view of the ground below was better than from dragon back, offering striking sights of the forest below. Valleys, hills, lakes and many more rolled endlessly as Shruikan was carried by the steady flapping of wings. Apart from that, Murtagh saw—more than he wanted to—how Shruikan used his tail during flight. In other ways, it was a sick reminder of Thorn's suffering when his own tail was ripped apart.

Lastly, Murtagh was thankful of Shruikan's judgment. As hind paws were slightly lengthier and could move more freely than front ones, the only hurt Murtagh felt were the opunctures of the tips of the claws when he was snatched from the ground like the prey he was.

Everything was over in a beat of a wing as Shruikan landed near the bank of a river in order to solve obvious thirst problems.

_Where will we go? _Murtagh asked, drinking in the crystalline cold water cupped in his hands.

_That is up to you._ Water dripped from Shruikan's snout as he raised his neck. _Preferably uninhabited by two-legs._

Murtagh thought for a bit, but no particular location crossed his mind. Except the one they just left.

_What after?_

_Most likely wait._

_Why did you come, Shruikan_? Murtagh asked. _You were free to do what you wish instead of carrying me with you. I am a burden that drags you down, nothing more_.

_Because you are the one of few two-legs I care about_, Shruikan said. _And I want to see my race flourish once again._

Murtagh gritted his teeth. He knew what that implied, but spoke no further. The race of dragons was at stake, and he, a mere two-legs, would not doom their future for personal interests.

_I will see you_, Thorn, Murtagh thought. _Someday, I will._

With that, he moved towards Shruikan and stroke the scales on his chest.

One journey ended, and another one was about to begin.


	68. The destiny I do not want

"You've seen them outside."

Nasuada strolled towards the open balcony of the mansion, looking over the bustling crowds of men and women. They walked with a certain lassitude, bearing their heads down warily.

Nasuada glanced at the unexpected visitor. She shrugged.

"They are afraid. Uncertain," Nasuada said, turning to watch the people. Most of them kept to the large, open roads. A select few entered and exited the path. All men.

"Trust keeps them here."

Nasuada's eyes narrowed. "Not courage. Our own people stole it from them."

The visitor said nothing. From beneath her disheveled dark locks, a pair of emerald eyes regarded Nasuada for a moment before settling on the same painting she had been staring since her arrival.

Questions were a delicate matter. Nasuada herself changed. Something snuffed out inside her, hindering the grip she had on the Varden and herself. The starkness in the visitor's gaze reminded Nasuada of her own wobbling strength.

Nasuada sat on a chair in front of the visitor, eyeing her. Nasuada had forgotten the day when she left with Eragon in that long journey that tattered her clothes and ruffled her hair, giving her a wild appearance. Nasuada's only memory of her involved clean clothing, the austere look her eyes used to possess. Back then, she bore a royal, commanding air. Not the disheveled looks of a beggar.

"Many commanders have died. Roran and his wife perished. Trained soldiers and workers carried assassin tools to kill their friends, and I hanged them all," Nasuada said coolly. "Bravery is no longer among us."

The visitor did not interfere. She just stood in her chair, hands placed in her lap, staring blankly at that painting depicting a lush forest. Her silence would have bothered Nasuada before. Now, it seemed so natural. A proper response.

"It fled with Eragon that day," Nasuada said, eyes meeting the wood boards beneath her feet. "Never to return."

An irrational anxiety crept beneath her skin. Its intensity was enough to draw sweat out and force her thump the floor swiftly with her foot.

She relied so much on Eragon that the visitor's silence felt agonizing. The elf in front of her possessed the answer to her predicament as well as the Varden's doom. Nasuada barely understood her diminishing power, that spark that had extinguished, but she now realized what it was. The apprehension revealed it to her.

It was the fear of losing Eragon, the tool that had granted her power by stirring the hearts of a scared and disbanded people.

"Eragon is not with me," the visitor said as she got up. "He is in Uru'baen."

Nasuada watched her disappear behind a simple mahogany door with surprised eyes. She wanted to ask Arya many questions, but nor she, nor Nasuada were prepared. They had both lost something after Galbatorix's attack, and coming to terms with the unknown was no easy task.

Heading towards the balcony, Nasuada contemplated Arya's words. A sudden calmness alleviated her worries after Arya's departure, clearing her mind in preparation for further planning. If Eragon had found the answers he sought, he had gone to Uru'baen to end the tyrant king. A much welcomed change for a crippled army that barely had enough supplies to last in a city.

Nasuada knew her army couldn't march. The numbers of her men shortened, their morale collapsed after the assassination and poisoning of her people inside the city they conquered. Most pressing was the lack of commanders. The ones in charge of battalions and contingents of troops were the first to fall.

_Barzul, _Nasuada cursed mentally, following the guard patrols intently. Following the sudden, swift work of the Empire, riots ensued. The people were displeased with the execution of assassins, manifesting their ire through terse attacks on her mansion. Guard patrols ensured a precarious stability once Nasuada overpowered the small gangs, yet such spontaneous solution wouldn't last.

People began to fear and detest her. The way they walked showed Nasuada. They stopped feeling safe in their city. They ceased trusting their leader. How many would leave for their homes? When would the soldiers desert, leaving her to fight a war alone?

Nasuada bit her bottom lip, drawing blood. Her fists clenched, her temples bulged. Realization came to her recently, but the people weren't stupid. Soon, many of them would start to realize the true nature of leadership.

Without Eragon, she was no more than a simple commander with fading capabilities.

On the day of her arrival, Arya had killed two men who tried to insert themselves into her. They ambushed Arya inside her former home recklessly, taking their time to drop their leggings and brag about mating. With a simple spell, Arya numbed their senses, forcing them to sleep. She did not spare their lives.

This confused Arya even more. Why had she been so vicious?

At first, the boisterous crowds and agitation irritated her. Feinster had become sullen and harsh, with yells masking the mumbles and guards strolling through the ranks of people. Arya hoped that Nasuada would help her adjust; to regain a part of her former self, to fit with everything. How could she, when Nasuada herself changed?

The morose look of her eyes under the twisted eyebrows betrayed Nasuada's inner turmoil. While she had provided Arya with information—most of it regarding Varden affairs and strategy—Nasuada could not help her integrate. Her stability was more twisted than the vines coating her mansion.

Arya slowly made her way through the waves of dirty men and smelly women, glancing at the constructions curtly, without much interest. Grime still coated most of them.

The houses remained the same. Only the people changed. Arya didn't have to inspect them rigorously to understand the cause of their distress and bowed heads. They had become desperate. The attack on her intimacy, the reason of the guard patrols, the plundering that took place throughout Feinster was something that came natural to people who had lost hope.

Arya was familiar with it. She wanted it back. After all, Arya had forsaken her people for just an ounce of peace. To obtain it, she had to go back to who she was. She had to lose hope.

Once she entered her home, Arya crashed in the cot, pondering. The two men ransacked her house, stealing everything that could be traded and keeping the essential. Arya had no need for trifles. A bed was enough for one who had no intention of lingering here for long.

As she closed her eyes, Arya weighed the two parts that made up her life. The first offered her safety, steadiness and cold logic that never failed her. The second—the useless, ephemeral one—brought her disappointment at the cost of fleeting happiness.

Had she loved Eragon? Was that how love felt? Arya didn't know, nor did she care. Arya had already settled on an option, one that suited her.

* * *

A strange, muffled sound roused Arya's awareness. Blinking rapidly, she brushed her eyes, squinting through the darkness of her room. It was nothing.

Sighing, Arya crashed in her cot, allowing her right arm to fall to the side.

Arya's fingers twitched. She touched something cold, but hard. Its texture was smooth, different from the dusty floor of the room.

Arya rolled out of her bed, picking the strange object. The night's veil revealed nothing to the eyes. With no candles to illuminate the room, Arya's hands hovered over the object, feelings its oval shape.

A cracking noise sent a shudder through Arya. Alarmed, Arya placed the object on the bed, breathing fast and hard.

Somehow, a dragon egg appeared next to her, the hatchling inside it squirming and jerking violently. Almost shocked due to the abruptness of the events, Arya froze in her bed. Was she to become a Rider?

She wasn't prepared. She wasn't the right person. She couldn't—

A squeak pierced the heavy silence. With no means to see the hatchling, Arya could only feel his clawed feet gripping the linen sheets.

Arya wanted to get out of the bed, to prevent the hatchling from nuzzling her hand, but a perverse curiosity stopped her. In that wavering moment, the hatchling rushed to her left hand, touching it with its snout.

_** THE END**_

**It took me a little more than a year to write this fanfic. I thank you all for the few words you have provided and for the encouragement to go on. Even if none of you was particularly vocal about this story(Except IronMikeTyson, who was my awesome fan :D), I trust you enjoyed your stay here. **


	69. Legacy of Darkness sequel?

**It's a little awkward to see people starting to comment when the book has ended instead of having the privilege of your company along the way. However, I may have some good news in store for you guys, ones that I will make public to avoid answering a multitude of PMs.**

**There is a sequel to Legacy of Darkness called…I haven't found a name for it. This second book ties the loose ends of book 1, details even the small tidbits such as Brom's seven words, what happened to Eragon after he teleported the egg to Arya, and we learn more about Galbatorix, who may surprise us all in the end.**

**Compared to book 1, the sequel has a well thought out plan, the ideas are rich and the characters get a lot of development. The story is going to follow the same important characters that we all love in addition to some secondary characters whose opinions may change Alagaesia.**

**Depending on how many of you gather to convince me to edit the first chapters, I may just allow my schedule to include the sequel ;) Let me know what you think in a review or a PM! Roar loud enough, and I will hear your call.**

**Your attention seeking writer,**

**Sinitar**


	70. Just a question

The second part of Legacy of Darkness will be up tomorrow or the following days. Now, I'm not completely sure whether it's worth continuing with this project(I have 5 chapters in but I'll keep working on it) or just start a new fanfic. What do you think?


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